” Sir John coughed. ’ ‘I will not. They fight over money all of the time. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. ” 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. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks.
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