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 confirmed drunkard's mouth at length sets itself peculiarly; it becomes the mark by which thoughtful men know him. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. " "Where's Mr. ” “You’ll never pay me. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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