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CHAPTER XVIII. ” 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 third time she escaped she reached the inconsequent barricade of the overturned table. Heaven forbid. The night had swallowed him up, but his work on her was done. It engulfed them in black, white, and gray.
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