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. "Why, how the devil did you happen to guess that?" cried the janizary. “Pray accept my apologies. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. Now if you are ready to go with me, I too am ready. It was not possible for him to have been deceived. "I don't deserve it," he said, at length; "but I would have risked a thousand deaths to enjoy this moment's happiness. I left him in charge of Quilt Arnold and Rykhart Van Galgebrok—the skipper I spoke of— with strict orders to shoot him if he made any further attempt at escape; and they're not lads—the latter especially—to be trifled with.
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