A despairing dialogue between 2 sisters as they discuss their marital fate in Tsarist Russia. Dark undertones of power and intrigue.
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Anastasia was weeping copiously, her black hair loose around her face, clung in damp curls to her wet cheeks. Her huge black eyes were mournful and completely piteous. You've cut to help me. He's not so bad. Melissa heard herself lying to her sister. He's a good match. How can you say that? He is 16 years older than me. He has been married before and and he's been handpicked by Papa. I've only known him for four weeks. Four weeks. His eyes are cold and his heart is even colder. Oh, God, why didn't Papa choose someone else? He has his reasons, and he expects both of us to do our duty. Melissa stroked her sister's damper, trying to placate her, but it was no use. I want to marry for love, she exclaimed, collapsing back on her bed and staring up at the ornate ceiling of the Grand Palace. The Floral Guilt Board is shown in the early morning sun, the crystal chandelier glittering and swinging a little in the breeze. The opulence and splendour of their surroundings were completely overwhelming, Melissa laughed. She couldn't believe what her sister had just said. Don't be so naive, Stana Women like us. Don't marry for love. How typical of Anastasia Even when the sisters were growing up in their father's caught in Syntagma, Montenegro, running along the narrow corridors of their cosy little palace with its rusted walls and white shutters, Anastasia had been the romantic, the one who believed the fairy tales, their mother told she'd listen wide eyed, sitting on her knee, playing with wooden puppets and planning her own wedding.