” Ennison took the document, tore it half in two without looking at it, and flung it back in Hill’s face. But he was always forcing her to say and do such unexpectedly conclusive things. ” 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. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion.
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