” 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. It is we who have become the parasites and toys. Indeed I must. He must be more or less of an age with this man. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor.
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