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"I am no man's mistress," answered the widow, crimsoning to her temples, but preserving her meek deportment, and humble tone. You would not have believed me, I know well. Perhaps the sunken cheeks and the protruding cheekbones gave her this impression. 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. As for loving you, I do. "You mustn't talk any more; the excitement isn't good for you. “Yes.
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