. ” 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. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. ‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I.
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