She realises she isn't loved. She realises that he doesn't love her. Not really. Not ever. And that realisation crashes though her carefully constructed unreality, leaving her life and her reality in tatters. And her horrified realisation, anxiety and grief, is distilled into the merest physical expression of wringing hands, shaking her hands; tears; and the rapid covering up of this grief with practical tasks such as smoothing down the bed linen... organising the family, the children, the rest of the story.