” 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. He did not speak for a moment. In one of the little red circles the doctor had traced that abbreviation. In spite of his shrieks, the miserable Jew was then dragged into the wellhole, and the rope being tied round his neck, he was launched from the bridge. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort. "I must tell you," she was saying.
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