” He shook her diminutive hand. Oh, you must believe me. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor. ” 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. “Yes, mostly.
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