Think of those days in Paris. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. ” 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 took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.
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