Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. She had neither the semi-boisterousness of the average American girl nor the chilling insolence of the English. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. ” 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. And nothing to tell her where to begin. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise.
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