When it came time to eat once again, she hid out on the beach, a remote fastness beyond the city walls, a swampy morass that everyone avoided. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. 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. He kissed her cheek. At the same time she was wildly exultant at the resolution she had taken, the end she had made to her blunder. “Oh, it is okay.
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