” 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. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. " "Well, we shall see," replied Jack. "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. For a few minutes all was silent. " "Excepting your father. It's a sorry world," he went on. Your time isn't come yet.
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