It was the beginning of June. Having seen every precaution taken to ensure his safe custody, he departed, muttering to himself, "I shall yet live to see him hanged—I shall live to see him hanged. And I do not know you. 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. . And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend.
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