It keeps dangling in front of my eyes. One has to train one’s self not to. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. ” Sir John, frankly oblivious of the possibility of passers-by, took her into his arms and kissed her. So, step by step, and hurt by hurt, Ruth was learning that John Smith was John Smith and nobody else. 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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