A Candle in the Wind by Mary Imlay Taylor

DIANE staggered to her feet and went up-stairs. Her strongest feeling was one of keen humiliation. She had made a confession that she had never intended to make, and it did not matter if her father had been the only listener. The actual admission, the spoken words, had clothed a dim specter with reality. She had heard her own voice making an admission that seemed to establish a motive -- a motive at once primal and unjustifiable -- for her desertion of her husband.

It frightened her. She felt as if Overton must have heard her, through the intervening night and the distance, that he must at last put the true interpretation upon the terror with which she had thrust him away when they met on the lonely mountain road. Then, as now, it had come to her with a revealing shock that she still loved him, and not the man she had married. Yet she must love Faunce, she argued wildly to herself. She did love him, she had loved him when she had married him, and it agonized her now to think of him as one who was so totally different from the man she had imagined him to be.