Chapter XXX SIR JOHN’S NECKTIE Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey little room writing letters. 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. She was making it up. “Anna,” he said, “you make it all indescribably hard for me. I'll turn cracksman, like my father—rob old Wood—he has chests full of money, and I know where they're kept—I'll rob him, and give the swag to you, Poll—I'll—" Jack would have said more; but, losing his balance, he fell to the ground, and, when taken up, he was perfectly insensible. Something in his tone pinched her heart. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. "That depends upon what you call educated. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. “Could you play ‘Fiddler on the Roof’?” father Thomas pleaded. ” The sensation produced was gratifying enough.
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