” 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. “It rests with them by the nature of things. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. I loathe this room.
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