Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. 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. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. You can tell me the rest another time. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Dunster shall fetch you a cab. ’ ‘They wear a uniform, do they not? They march and fight with swords and shoot with guns, no?’ ‘Well, yes, miss.
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