” 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. Soon, they fattened up, their cheeks rosy and their hair shining. “He ran some Austrian fellow off. He was ready to seed his legacy, and you were a pawn to be moved out of the way. ‘At this present, I must appropriate Lady Bicknacre.
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