His last actions were futile. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. When her shock and the headache subsided, and she remembered that she had been reading the letter when Gosse had accosted her, she looked for it in vain. \"483-4492. ” 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. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded.
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