. Stanley regarded his neighbor’s clean-shaven face almost warily. 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. Kneebone's house, the young man hastened to a hotel in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, where, having procured a horse, he shaped his course towards the west end of the town. “My husband!” she laughed a little derisively. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how.
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