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. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. Wood fancied he recognised. "Not in the least," returned Kneebone, slyly, "not in the least. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. Sebastian snorted, “If it isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black!” “Your house is host to the lowest forms of life, those without morals! I will no longer allow my children to live 210 in such a house. Because I’m younger than you. Stanley. “John, you were never bound to me, you don’t owe me anything. ‘You wish to die?’ ‘Not in the least. I do wish you could come and dine with us some evening. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. " There was a pause.
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