” 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. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Go away now, there’s a good lad. Poor fellow! he sometimes indulges the hope of marrying you, when he grows old enough. Save my seat.
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