It began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. “Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. ” 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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