“You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort. . ” 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. Her usual dignified reserve had availed her nothing.
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