She addressed Capes as though she spoke to him alone. “Only it is much too late for you to be out alone. I keep on thinking of you. ” 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. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. She was nude and horribly maimed.
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