" With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. This won’t do. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. ” 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. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. Or run me through.
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