"I release you from your promise. ’ She focused on Gerald’s face. “They have no plans for us. We dressed it in a little music. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. And you see, I don’t turn my back, and I am looking at you and thinking about you from top to toe. If ever I could bring myself to ask you any favour, I would ask you to forget even as I have forgotten. 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. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest.
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