” “I don’t care. . Wood, was examined. " All day long the phrase interpolated her thoughts. I never met your sister in Paris, but I heard about her more than once. A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. Your life is like a funeral March. “You poor little girl!” he cried. ” 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.
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