"No, I protest," Emilia countered gently, though she recognized Desdemona's insinuation for what it was, and chafed at it but slightly. "As a friend...and I hope, lady, that you consider yourself such, as I do...as a friend, it was absolutely your place to ask, and be curious."
She trailed off for a moment then, wondering how best to answer such a grave inquiry. How could she explain her strange maelstrom of emotions and sentiments to Desdemona, whose love for her lord the Moor was so strong, so passionate and pure and present? How could she explain that bitterness, resentment, fear, and desire for what could not be were tempered by tender, ardent devotion and understanding fringing upon kinship? How could she explain the mad union of minds like and diametric that was her marriage? In faith, to tell such things seemed nearly impossible...
With a slight sigh, she glanced back to Desdemona, unable to suppress a smile at the sight of her young lady fondling her handkerchief. "Truly, I have loved," she replied, knowing as she spoke that what she said was the whole, honest truth, and relishing the fact. "Mayhap it was not as you now feel it, yearning always to be in your beloved's presence and cherishing his tokens like gifts from God-though you must not think I hold either envy or disapproval-but it is love nonetheless, a wondrous pitiful love, and I, now, am quite content with that."