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'm sorry, Mr. . We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin. He kissed her neck, moving down to her breasts, trying to consume her with passion. "I will struggle no longer with destiny. .
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