She had been mortified to realize her dalliance with the Prince was... well, implied, certainly. That might even be worse, leaving it up to the audience's imagination, when what actually happened wasn't that explicit, when all was said and done. Though one could certainly argue that she broke faith with her husband, and that being the case, does it really matter to what precise degree?
Of course, it's hard to be upset about that when it was only a preamble to being told she was dead. Whether her husband ever found out or not, it's not as if she'll ever be able to ask his forgiveness.
Jessica isn't the first to offer sympathy, or the first to tell her she has every right to be upset. But she lays it out in such simple, sensible terms, and Greta leans against her and cries like a child. Like what she's suffered is the worst possible thing (she knows that it isn't), like the injustice of it all ought to split the world in half (she knows that it won't).
But she doesn't have a child's bottomless well of energy, and she can't keep it up for long. Within a matter of minutes, the tears slow, and her breathing steadies. She even manages to fish a handkerchief out of her pocket so she can mop herself off a little. "I just wanted to go home," she says, her voice a miserable croak. "I was just... waiting." She spits out that last word as if it tastes sour. She hates waiting, always has, and to have it all be for nothing is almost unbearable.
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Of course, it's hard to be upset about that when it was only a preamble to being told she was dead. Whether her husband ever found out or not, it's not as if she'll ever be able to ask his forgiveness.
Jessica isn't the first to offer sympathy, or the first to tell her she has every right to be upset. But she lays it out in such simple, sensible terms, and Greta leans against her and cries like a child. Like what she's suffered is the worst possible thing (she knows that it isn't), like the injustice of it all ought to split the world in half (she knows that it won't).
But she doesn't have a child's bottomless well of energy, and she can't keep it up for long. Within a matter of minutes, the tears slow, and her breathing steadies. She even manages to fish a handkerchief out of her pocket so she can mop herself off a little. "I just wanted to go home," she says, her voice a miserable croak. "I was just... waiting." She spits out that last word as if it tastes sour. She hates waiting, always has, and to have it all be for nothing is almost unbearable.