” 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. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. But Enschede took them as they came, without question. You didn’t even put the twelve words.
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