Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. 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. This is not the conduct of a jeune demoiselle. She wrenched her head away from his grip and got her arm between his chest and hers.
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