272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. Die, indeed! We’re going to do work; we’re going to unfold about each other; we’re going to have children. "What ho!" he cried slapping Smith, who had fallen asleep with the brandybottle in his grasp, upon the shoulder. 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. S.
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