She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. She turned with an effort. It came into her head with real emotional force that this must be some particularly fantastic sort of dream. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. I cut off her limbs so that she would not escape. 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.
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