[Rosalind stares down at nothing for a long few seconds. Her breathing is shallow now, quick inhales that betray her nerves.]
In that hallucination. With-- with Astor.
[She doesn't dare use his first name. Bringing him up at all feels like a bad idea, and Rosalind is growing tense in Robert's arms, but he has to understand.]
It was domestic. It was-- we lived in a mansion, and I was his wife, his, his perfect wife, I was everything a lady ought to be. I had to be, because that was the way he wanted it, and god only knew what would happen to me if he grew so displeased that he kicked me out. So he was happy, because I was the bloody light of our home. And when he'd fallen asleep, that was the only time I was able to practice my little hobby, when he couldn't see me and disapprove.
God, Robert, I was so miserable. I was so . . . you wouldn't have recognized me.
It's not that I think you'd force me into that. God, even if we had a, a, a child, I don't think you'd ever force me into that, that's not it. But I don't want to . . .
. . . we've never been able to be domestic. Not properly. And I suppose I'm afraid that if I allow myself to give into that, I'll end up precisely where I was with Charlie Astor: miserable and cut off from all that makes my life worth living now.
no subject
In that hallucination. With-- with Astor.
[She doesn't dare use his first name. Bringing him up at all feels like a bad idea, and Rosalind is growing tense in Robert's arms, but he has to understand.]
It was domestic. It was-- we lived in a mansion, and I was his wife, his, his perfect wife, I was everything a lady ought to be. I had to be, because that was the way he wanted it, and god only knew what would happen to me if he grew so displeased that he kicked me out. So he was happy, because I was the bloody light of our home. And when he'd fallen asleep, that was the only time I was able to practice my little hobby, when he couldn't see me and disapprove.
God, Robert, I was so miserable. I was so . . . you wouldn't have recognized me.
It's not that I think you'd force me into that. God, even if we had a, a, a child, I don't think you'd ever force me into that, that's not it. But I don't want to . . .
. . . we've never been able to be domestic. Not properly. And I suppose I'm afraid that if I allow myself to give into that, I'll end up precisely where I was with Charlie Astor: miserable and cut off from all that makes my life worth living now.