Acne sprayed her cheeks in a fine red spatter where it intermingled with brown freckles. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. She leaped suddenly at a desperate resolution, and in one moment had made it into a new self. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. 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. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him.
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