” 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. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. “Be careful,” Lucy cautioned Michelle as she sidestepped a two by four studded with upturned nails. A nurse was at the other end of the room. ‘The secret passage!’ It did not take long to find the mechanism of the candlesconce that opened the door. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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