It was as if she were still in the parlor downstairs, signing away her life to a man she didn’t love. Married. She was Mrs. Leo Wade. The name alone would bring her curiosity or pity—good Lord, she hated pity, had been suffering under its burden for much of her life. And disappointment, from everyone in her family. Her parents had never demanded anything of her except that she find her own happiness, and she couldn’t even give them that. She’d squandered her future for a momentary pleasure and was almost as disappointed with herself as she was with Leo. And now he was behind her, brazenly removing his clothing for a bath. Did he think the sight of his body would change her mind, make her pliant to his will? Why shouldn’t he think that? she thought. Time after time, she’d mindlessly responded to just that. She couldn’t even tell herself it was because she was an artist, and he had a particularly fine form. No, she’d been led astray by a passion she should never have let herself experience.
