She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life. As the wedding neared, she bought some finer things: a veal roast for supper, a single pearl for the dowry. She had viewed them askance, and without exchanging ideas with any one else in the world about them. The signal of distress was evidently understood. Did he intend to kill her now, this instant? Or had she a moment or two to try to save herself? Recalling Leonardo’s dictum, she did not struggle, for that would only tighten the trap about her, and perhaps even spring it. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre.
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