"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr. “That’s it,” she said. “You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. "Here's one of the thieves, Sir Rowland!" cried the attendant. ” 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. " "Mr.
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