“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Sebastian leapt down into the crypt. 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 they entered the room beyond, a fierce growl was heard. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself.
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