To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. His name was Peter. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. A sinister thought edged in. What our dear mother would say back home I dread to think. ’ ‘I’m afraid you are right. ’ ‘Je m’en moque.
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