As the carriage rode on the streets of the city, I sat facing my husband, arms crossed, nose up and sulking. He simply ignored all my angry sighs and tap of the foot by looking out the tiny opening of the door. It was a windy, stormy evening, and the wind blew in often messing my lovely pinned up, blond hair.

“I can’t believe you’ll allow such a treatment to be imposed on your own wife,” I said, glaring at him fiercely, hoping he’d cancel this nonsense trip but his olive-green eyes kept staring out, not flinching one inch in my direction and this made my insides boil even more. “To think I must be treated for those supposed hysteric tantrums you seem to think I have. My, that’s the most ridiculous condition I’ve ever heard.” I watched for any sign on his part that he might accept my refusal but none came. After a long pause, I continued my plea. “And you think some strange man up my skirt, doing God knows what will cure this supposed sickness? Rubbish, why don’t you just admit that you no longer want me as your wife.” I wept and pressed my white flower embroidered handkerchief on my face, careful not to smudge my delicate, impeccable porcelain make up.