” 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 did not remember how many seasons it took before she relented, how much time before she decided to toy with his affections. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. ” He fell back in his chair with an expression of tremendous desolation.
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