"It's true that I go through life
dragging a sick woman—cold and sick—
blotched and middle-aged—and fanatic—
who can give neither pleasure nor a living son.
I have worked at that long enough, I think. I know
what can come from that bed.
There never was much need for the hair shirt
she wears next to her skin. And none now."
— Henry, Anne Of The Thousand Days