His shouts for help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter. 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. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane. ’ ‘But—’ ‘You’ll get her all over blood again. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. She could not speak. It occurred to Ann Veronica once that she had known him when he was younger, but day had followed day, and each had largely obliterated the impression of its predecessor.
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