Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. “Number 13, please, cabman. ‘It is precisely that point over which Melusine and I fell out. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. " "Not while Thames Darrell and Sir Rowland live. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. ” “That sounds very interesting,” she answered coolly. ’ He shifted unguardedly, and hissed a breath, wincing. “But your hair,” he gasped. 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.
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