You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am. ” 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 nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened.
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