” 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. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. He was interesting and inconclusive, and the original papers to which he referred her discursive were at best only suggestive.
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