"Right to a farthing. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. She bent down. She flared her upper lip, baring her canines which had extended by half an inch. Her acrid rose perfume oil that hung in the air that smelled like a head shop, her V. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation. ” He shook his head slowly, smiling mysteriously. ‘Go then. “I do hope you will see how things are, and not be offended with me or frightfully shocked and distressed by what I have done. ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. ‘Marry an Englishman! Which Englishman?’ Melusine shrugged. 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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