‘God loves you, even if your father didn’t. If you can imagine it, I survived it. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. "By George!" he exclaimed. Meantime, every preparation had been made outside for his departure. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look.
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