‘I am not a fool. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. ” 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. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. "The Dutchman was right, after all.
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