Letitia Jonciere was always the epitome of a socialite. She always did her hair in the latest fashion: with all sorts of hairpins. She dressed as befits the wife of an inquisitor. This woman always smelled of luxury.

She would never have believed it if someone had told her one day that her destiny was to find herself at the interrogation table, and across from her sat her own husband, who was ordered to ask his wife a few questions. She would have laughed, that's all.

Now this woman, deprived of her former social brilliance, instead of a luxurious dress is dressed only in prison clothes: impossibly dull, almost humiliating for such a once exalted socialite as she.

The spouses' glances - now probably exes - meet. Letizia sees every wrinkle on her husband's face in the light of the godlessly dim lamp. She doesn't say a word for a long time. She understood that trying to ask for something was useless. And she herself, honestly, didn't want to prove anything to him or to herself.

Her life is destined to end in a few hours.