“And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. 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. Stanley, in his effort to seem at ease, took entire possession of the hearthrug. Old and dilapidated, the widow's domicile looked the very picture of desolation and misery.
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