” 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. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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