One moment, Emilia stood staring into pale stars offset by a black sky. The next, she was staring into pale eyes offset by a black fury. She uttered a small cry of surprise as Iago swung her thus, the movement catching her off guard, and she could do naught but look at him in horror as he berated her.
Like occurrence, quoth the Moor. He was much more wise than Emilia could ever hope to be.
A multitude of instincts seized Emilia in the split second before she responded to her husband's irate outburst. Her first impulse was to cry, to sink down and weep, to curl up on the ground and cover her head and wail like a young girl and beg, beg, for mercy. The second was to allow her own anger to be sparked by her husband's and give him a biting retort. Fine then, I am not sorry for it, she might say saucily, knocking his hand off her shoulder with haughty finesse. You deserved your punishment, vile monster that you are! And with that, she might dare to strike some sense into him-slap him across the cheek as he had done her… The third impulse was purely of self-preservation, and urged her to duck under his outstretched arm and flee from the room, running down the hall and crying for help, her thick hair and thin skirt flying out behind her as she made her escape.
She repressed all of these instincts, though she felt her heart might burst in the doing, and met his eyes solidly, trying hard not to quake as she did so. Was this the best way to handle the situation? Or would it only anger him further? She would soon find out.
"I am sorry I told you I was sorry," she said, strong, yet gentle-much like the valiant Moor in all his wisdom. Though the statement sounded laughable she did not voice a single hint of irony. "You are right, Iago. I cannot possibly know how you feel at this moment-and yes, I hear you. If it is your will, I will not patronize you with my sympathy any longer. But, I ask of you, do not speak to me like this."
She spoke solemnly, firmly, quietly; her aim was to diffuse the situation with as little emotional unrest as possible. Displaying fear, anger, or betrayal would certainly do little more than provide her husband's rage with richer meat on which to feed. But suppose he interpreted her words as defiance? In that case, she might have made matters worse.
If he strikes me, I will not cry, Emilia thought to herself, attempting resolve. He has not half that power to hurt me as I have to be hurt. I am more grieved by his pain than anything else… I must not forget that he is my husband, not a villain.