The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. Outside in the hall he paused and thoughtfully stroked his smooth blue chin. Was the man debating whether or no to tell the truth? A grimace played about Valade’s mouth and the general waited, maintaining his own rigid pose. “This is all madness,” she declared wearily. Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. 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. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. Earles?” he inquired. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact.
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