“I wonder would you mind seeing who it is. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. “I think,” he said, “that I am right. He took her there on the cold, dirty floor, his nails digging into her back, his teeth sinking into her breasts. So am I. ” 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. So I fear there's little chance of any one getting it.
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