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. Lucy saw it happen as if in slow motion. After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit.
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