Before Marthe will become impatient and come out. “Steady on!” he cried. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. “Now replace the stone, my child. ” 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.
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