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The man was my husband. 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. But, if you have any particular fancy for hanging the gentleman, who chose to take the law into his own hands—and I think your motive extremely disinterested and praiseworthy—why, it's just possible, if you make it worth my while, that your desires may be gratified. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear. She stepped backwards. I am not prying for my own amusement. . " "Many a man has been glad to pay double the amount to get his head from under the Mint pump," observed Blueskin, gruffly. She could not help herself. “Further than that, I am amazed that you should dare to allude to those few moments, to that single moment of folly. On his arrival at Dollis Hill, Mr. Ann Veronica decided she would have to go on with Capes another day, and, looking up, discovered him sitting on a stool with his hands in his pockets and his head a little on one side, regarding her with a thoughtful expression. But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses. There was none.
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