She could not feel her own body. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. The music confused and distracted her, and made her struggle against a feeling of intoxication. “Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon. 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. Jonathan Wild.
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