“Think how dumb we find ourselves and stifled! I know we seem to have a sort of freedom. But how am I to know of things?” “Some things I hope you may never know,” he said. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. ” 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.
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