‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. ” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. ” 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. ” “Perhaps,” she said, “I am superstitious. When he returned, it was always the same.
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