She looked at him as he fingered a small switch on the side of the helicopter’s door. “You may call anytime. He will not provide for the daughter. ” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. She posed herself before her mirror and surveyed herself with gravely thoughtful, gravely critical, and yet admiring eyes. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. 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. "So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it.
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