” She sat motionless, with her hand tightening over the edge of the table, and he, too, said no more. My husband, he is cruel and wicked, and—and entirely undistinguished. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was. 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. He was looking pale and ill. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. Coarse as were the ruffian's notions of feminine beauty, he could not be insensible to the surpassing loveliness of the fair creature, who had thus solicited his attention. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjEwMS41MyAtIDI2LTA2LTIwMjQgMTA6MjY6MzIgLSAxNjYzNTE0NzMw
This video was uploaded to jandlonmark.org on 26-06-2024 09:09:35
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