The curtain rose out of the concluding bars of the overture and revealed Isolde on the prow of the barbaric ship. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Wanton! Had I been one, even God would have forgiven me, understanding. Would I could purchase his apathy as easily as I can procure his assistance. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued. Hers were less noble, yet stately.
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