A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island. ” 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. "How long shall I be here?" he asked. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins.
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