These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. You yourself, I am sure, recognize how impossible you have made it for me now to do anything of the sort. The train, meantime, had passed Marylebone Lane, when it again paused for a moment, at Jack's request, near the door of a public-house called the City of Oxford. ” “Then he—and Paris—lied,” Ennison answered. 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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