The sun already hung rather high in his heavenly domain, and still Desdemona did not know where Emilia should be. Faith, such tardiness did not seem meet to her character-Emilia was both punctual and practical. Surely there was some matter, out of her control, that deterred her; it could not be any fault of her own.
What a blessed woman Emilia was. Desdemona liked her well, and she believed that they had become good friends, even after having spent little more than a few days together. At first, Emilia had appeared slightly stiff, not lending any more intimacy than she had felt necessary, but the ties between them had since softened, like clay hearts worked by warm hands-that was how Desdemona pictured it in her mind's eye. In faith, her heart flowed with love when the older woman's pert smile was coaxed to the rosy lips.
Truly, Desdemona felt sympathy for Emilia at times, for dear Emilia often seemed to lack sanguinity. Ay, indeed, such was her natural humor, but Desdemona had occasionally wondered if not Emilia's husband were at some blame for it. An honest man he was, good Iago, but honesty did not directly import kindness, and frequently did Emilia seem to be at the blunt end of her husband's insensitivity.
Still, Emilia's marriage was no personal business of Desdemona's. Desdemona bowed her head in apology for having intruded so, even if in her own head.
She sat demurely within the chambers she shared with her husband (O, how she loved the fact, that she could now call Othello husband), absently embroidering embellishments upon a handkerchief with nimble, graceful fingers, whilst her thoughts ambled leisurely about.