He would discuss something she had been reading, and he would give her some unexpected angle, setting a fictional character before her with astonishing clearness. ” 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 sense of humour could not wholly resist his abnormal gravity. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves.
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