Now at dusk she calls for the feast to start again, madly begging to hear again the agony of Troy, to hang on his lips again, savoring his story. Then, with the guests gone, and the dimming moon 100 quenching its light in turn, and the setting stars inclining heads to sleep—alone in the echoing hall, distraught, she flings herself on the couch that he left empty. Lost as he is, she’s lost as well,
