She gathered her black purse, a pointless thing made of cardboard covered in sateen and bejeweled with an assortment of rhinestones. “I love you. “I never wanted to kick any one so much in my life as that second fellow. ” 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. With his arms bare, the neckband of his shirt tucked in, he laboured. We’re the hysterical animal, Mr. . ” She agreed.
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