The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. “Ding-dong-Diedermayer is here, Lucy. E. She laughed. She breathed deeply. It'll be your turn to save mine next. ” 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. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand.
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