To recreate the era, I deliberately tried to avoid creating a thinly disguised bodice ripper where an “empowered” woman mouthed off to prospective suitors in jerkins and tights, in other words, a typical romance novel. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. Gone off, cool as you please, and left me to manage everything. Marvel, who proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. “I wish that I could forget it,” he said. He suspected a trap.
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