Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. The continuity was frequently broken in upon by diversory suppositions. He moved her dress from her shoulders and off her torso. “Believe me, I know. ” 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. Nobody could possibly find him now.
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