155 The ringing doorbell jarred her from her stupor. 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. ‘Certainly you must have seen her. You must—you shall be mine. “It is very, very difficult,” she continued, looking steadfastly at the ground. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. “I didn’t know you were half-Gypsy either. They had changed identities absolutely.
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