" "Then this is not my child?" exclaimed she, with increased astonishment. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. ” 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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