Sc. He tugged at the overly large hooded sweatshirt, which she unzipped and let fall to the ground. ‘You said?’ ‘Mrs Sindlesham, your great-aunt, miss. ” 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. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. ‘Is it worth it?’ he asked at last. “And somehow or other,” she added, after a long interval, “I must pay Mr. Happened to be at the Chariot, you know, with Trodger, and it’s review day.
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