” “For my infertility. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. ” 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. " The Wastrel rushed.
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