” 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. They talked of a new substitute for dripping in vegetarian cookery that Mrs. She was radiant. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. ” Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor.
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