” 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 called a waiter. One or the other. “I get that a lot. The robbers proceeded singly, and kept on the grass skirting the road, so that no noise was made by their horses' feet. He smiled complacently.
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