” 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. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. I tell you, if you do not help me this instant, you will find that your major he will very likely shoot you.
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