He was like a man beside himself. “Nothing can cheer me,” he said, “except champagne. ” 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. ” She tried to sound convincing as she looked away hotly. “Your mother was a Gypsy.
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