” 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. Here was Ruth Enschede—sick of love! Love—something the world would always keep hidden from her, at least human love. ’ ‘That wasn’t my fault. Her tone was icy. pglaf.
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