He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. “It is concerning—our future relations,” Sir John pronounced ponderously. ” 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 probably still wouldn’t help. “Mere sensuality. ‘Kill him? Oh. She was suddenly very aware of the room, the television still blaring, and the chill in the air.
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