” 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’s best. She had agonized over it for weeks. ‘Very well, never mind. He could not move; but stood like one stupified, with his hands clasped together, and eyes almost starting out of their sockets, fixed upon his unfortunate parent. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. ’ ‘Indeed?’ Gerald said politely. ” “For my infertility. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. He had a blue overstuffed couch, his own television, even a computer with its own desk. Do you have a car?” She asked. To many in that crowded solitude it came as an extraordinary relief. We have only those phantoms called memories, which are the husks of dreams. At noon the doctor himself arrived.
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