She turned to the stage, and Tristan was wounded in Kurvenal’s arms, with Isolde at his feet, and King Mark, the incarnation of masculine force and obligation, the masculine creditor of love and beauty, stood over him, and the second climax was ending in wreaths and reek of melodies; and then the curtain was coming down in a series of short rushes, the music had ended, and the people were stirring and breaking out into applause, and the lights of the auditorium were resuming. "Drink your peg; don't bother about me. “Wild horses—not if they have all the mounted police in London—shan’t keep me out. The weather's been foul enough for the last fortnight, but I've never turned my back upon it.
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