It is simply our point of view which is altogether different. The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said. ToC Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. 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. Yes—as he would have liked. She moaned, having failed in her mission to find her mother and her God. It was supposed he was drowned in crossing the river, as his body had never been found.
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