Thank him, not me, man. 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. She isn't used to
cities. She had now the clear and
tranquil expression of one whose mind is made up. “Why would she do that? Why does
she care? That’s a waste of her time. It was now a quarter past twelve.
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This video was uploaded to indienet.info on 26-06-2024 02:41:32