"Take it," cried Wood, holding the infant towards her; "take it, and fly. ‘I thought it was his great-nephew, young Brewis Charvill, who is his heir. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. The woman shrugged her shoulders. “You stupid bitch. ” 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.
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