54 \"Yes?\" \"No one says 'Oh my word' anymore. ” 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. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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