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. I am not boring you, am I?” She raised her eyes to his and smiled into his face. Call her Miss Pellissier, eh? I tell you she’s my wife, and I’ve got the certificate in my pocket. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. 265 The madness crept around her like smoke under a door.
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