It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case. ” 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. Then she realized that it was her business to let Manning talk and impose his own interpretations upon the situation so far as he was concerned. "How?" cried her brother, starting. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women.
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