There was, it might be said, a double illumination. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. He played variations on this theme for the better part of an hour. ‘It is precisely that point over which Melusine and I fell out. She took some shirts, underwear, shoes, a duffel bag, and his wallet to make it look like he had gone a-traveling. ” 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. A woman cannot change her soul.
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