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. Presently she was going through a swaying, noisy crowd, whose faces grinned and stared pitilessly in the light of the electric standards. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. Then, if you are bad to me, I can more easily blow off your head. Don't build your hopes too high; but I will do what I can. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently.
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