The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. 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. ‘My God!’ he said, ‘I’ll go after them and kill him. ’ A tiny giggle escaped her, and she lowered the pistol a trifle. Kneebone took his leave. ” “But it is too late,” she declared. Something in his tone pinched her heart. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. But when she spoke her lips quivered, and they came. “When are you going away?” He asked.
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