‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. "I declare you throw me into an ague. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. A nurse was at the other end of the room. I am shockingly poor. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive. " "Not now—not now!" she returned, with a shudder. 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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