” 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. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. ‘It is imbecile that you are. Selfishness.
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