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. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. She found a clean sweatshirt and soft pajama pants, glad to trade the wet for the dry. I must break open the door. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. G'night, kids.
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