Traps, set with peculiar cunning; she had encountered them everywhere. 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. The conceit of Howard Spurlock in imagining he knew what mental suffering was! But Enschede was right: Ruth must never know. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Neither would she allow herself to feel guilty nor would she allow him to find a way into the house. We have seen pitted cheeks, which we would not exchange for dimples and a satin skin.
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