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. Herculis was a port city on the Tyrrhenian Sea not far from where the manor had been. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. "This alters the case materially. Don't you hear how you've made it cry?" "Throttle the kid!" rejoined Blueskin, fiercely. He turned in at the club. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. She had never been there before at that hour, in that light, and it seemed to her as if she came to it all for the first time. Applying his ear to the keyhole, Jack listened, but could detect no sound.
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