The thief-taker's throat was bound up with thick folds of linen, and his face had a ghastly and cadaverous look, which communicated an undefinable and horrible expression to his glances. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax. Like stealing. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. 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. True, on board the ships she had watched young men from afar, but only with that normal curiosity which is aroused in the presence of any new species. “John,” she declared, “I must eat or die. “Promise me that you’ll never tell another living soul, John. And you’d better have her fetch in some food for the missie, an’ all. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family.
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