LONDON, APRIL 30th, 1872
His face is filled with relief as he rushes towards me with wide eyes. “Sophie, are you alright? I have been waiting for you for hours,” he tells me, worry evident in his voice. I swallow nervously as I realize how selfish I have been tonight.
“I am fine,” I respond quietly, making him freeze just as he lifts his arms to pull me into his embrace. He lets them fall down to his sides instead, his gaze studying me intently for a few long moments.
“You are not fine. What is wrong?” he insists, clearly not wanting to let this go. I clench my jaw. He leaves me all by myself two nights in a row and now he cares about how I feel? I close my eyes, scolding my own thoughts. This isn’t right. He is genuinely worried about me. Why am I being so resentful when I
