" "You might have added 'then'," said Miss Spurlock, drily. ” 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. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. I’d take it— forgive me if I seem a little urgent—as a sort of proof of friendliness. Once again, he passed his hand over the surface and carefully noted all the obstacles. Her anger died and she eyed him.
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