Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. ” 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. I don’t know anyone. I thought it would be magnificent to have a great house in Paris, and more money than any other woman. She paused for a moment.
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