I want to tell the truth, confess that the moment Guido asked me to go to Venice, I had decided to accept. I’ve never had the candor to admit it, even in this diary. Otherwise, I would have to acknowledge that the effort I made to forget myself for twenty years has been in vain. I succeeded until the moment when, hidden under my coat, I carried home this shiny black notebook like a bloodsucker. Everything started then; even the change in my relations with Guido began the day I admitted I could hide something from my husband, even if it was a notebook. I wanted to be alone, to write; and those who want to be enveloped in their own solitude, in a family, always carry in themselves the seed of sin. In fact, because of these pages, everything seems different, even what I feel for Guido. I blame his money for the weaknesses that I can’t overcome or accept. I want to delude myself that an outside force drives me to betray my duties, I don’t dare confess that I love him. I really think that the strongest feeling in me is cowardice.