“The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. Ann Veronica stared for a moment in amazement at this dark-green object that clashed as it was put down. 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. I do not want to hear from you even the threat of disobedience.
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