“What else was I to do?” For some seconds she stood watching him and both were thinking very quickly. 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. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. “So should you. But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times.
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