“For six years—this year, and this, and this, and this—I did not love him.
And then I did. Then I was his. I can count the days I was his in hundreds.
The days we bedded. Married. Were Happy. Bore Elizabeth.
Hated. Lusted. Bore a dead child... which condemned me...
In all one thousand days. Just a thousand. Strange.
And of those thousand, one when we were both in love,
only one, when our loves met and overlapped and were both mine and his.
And when I no longer hated him, he began to hate me.
Except for that one day.”
Anne of the Thousand Days