My happiness, of which I have been so unjustly deprived, has been consummated. I now see Vronsky on a nearly daily basis, for we cannot bring ourselves to be separated for more than a small amount of time. I do continue my life with my husband in the public eye, but lately the two realms of my existence have begun to meet, and I fear the most dreadful consequences. My friends think that my passionate eyes in his presence are an irresistible source of gossip. My husband seems to take note of the amount of time that I spend with Vronsky, for he interrogated me on the subject last night. I cheerfully denied all suggestions of my infidelity, but I could tell that he still had doubts. His disposition is much changed, although I know that he wouldn’t admit it for the world. Political bickering, a disease that should be avoided like the scarlet fever, is of the utmost importance to Alexei, thus disclosing genuine emotion is his life’s greatest pain. He told me that he loved me, but that was an empty profession of non-existent feeling. “‘If he hadn’t heard there was such a feeling as love, he would never have used the word. He doesn’t even know what love is’” (147). I am living a life of deceit, and if he knew, I don’t know if it would be more to him than a social complication. I cannot, however, stand to lie to my son. He sees his mother as a kind, honorable woman who loves his father, a belief so far from the truth that it breaks my heart. I cannot back out of this affair, though, for the same reason that I begun it: I love Vronsky. Is not love the source of much foolishness? But the star-crossed lovers from Verona couldn’t escape societal chains, and I am afraid neither can we. I see the sun set and the clouds move in, and it is so that I forebode my demise.