He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. “I was sick of the make-believe. “I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. ” 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. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition. She cried out in pain, then in pleasure as he thrust himself into her.
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