“If I cut her neck, you’ll never get the stains out of your fancy car. ” 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. Evidently Ah Cum's luck had held good. These galleries were separated in the middle by iron grates. Whatever anticipation Ann Veronica had formed of this vanished in the reality. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase.
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