Her detractors had classed her correctly all along, that she was not made right as a woman, that she was wicked. She knew because she felt right, lying sated on his chest, on a mattress that creaked, when she should have felt horrid. There was no honor in what they were doing, and yet she became alive in his arms in ways she had not expected to be possible; it was as though she were fully growing into her skin under his touch, stretching herself, in fact, when she had believed herself fully formed.
