” “I suppose we are,” said Vee, rearranging the flowers in her hand. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. It seems to me exactly what is wanted. ” 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. ‘Jacques, are you dead? Jacques, do you hear me?’ Melusine put her cheek to his lips, and felt the faint warmth of his breath. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said.
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