He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. 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 hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it.
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