There was nothing left now of the selfassured, prosperous man of affairs. ” 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 was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six.
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