Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. For a nun at night it is less dangerous than for the jeune demoiselle. She meant to leave anyway, or so she would tell herself later. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. 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. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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