No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. ‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. ” 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. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. He never appears to so little advantage as when speaking of him.
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