” 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. He reached over and took her hand. Don't worry about me. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son.
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