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. Her disapproval was obvious enough. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. "Despatch him!" roared Jonathan. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. I do swear. They happen to a man. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again. This done, Edgeworth Bess, who watched her opportunity, slipped out of the Lodge. Man's fate is in his own hands. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers.
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