I have not yet willed myself to look at the pattern of my marriage; like Anne of Cleves' ring, it has become something of no force or value. Unlike her, I have not destroyed it; it is still beautiful. Although it has not embraced my hand for a long period, it has retained its meaning; it is a passage of time, frozen. I wonder what I shall see, in what colours and shapes should this pattern present itself, finally, to me. Will it be in the deep cobalt-blues and vermillion reds of my sitting room, or the deep English greens, like antique leather, of my dining room? Will there be tigers, dragons, or other fanciful creatures? I think the correct answer should be a length of finely embroidered silk, stiff with padding. Its colour will be a rich, deep golden yellow, found in the ancient court robes of Imperial China, with glowing reds and blues in fine, intricate patterns. There will be other colours, a vivid rose pink, and a delicate jade-green. It may be a garment too heavy for me to wear; it is to be put away, wrapped in silk paper, and laid in an attic for many years.