And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. That terrible Young Person! she’s vanished. ” 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. " But the caution came too late. “There ought to be a Censorship of Books. No one would ever know what happened to him. Your face has flitted out of my watch-fire, and then I have been a haunted man.
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