” 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. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. That had taken her by surprise, and her tired wits had failed her.
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