” 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. She could hear him from the lower floor as he locked the gates and drew up the wooden part of the bridge. It was a serene and charming evening, and twilight was gently stealing over the face of the country.
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