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176 pages, Paperback
First published March 15, 2016
‘She was restless. She wanted to work. She wanted to be thirty people. She wanted to wear a cap of pearls and a coat of bright blue diamonds. To live as nature does, in many ages, in many brains’
‘Nevertheless, though her philosophies are futile, and her plays intolerable, and her verses mainly dull, the vast bulk of the Duchess is leavened by a vein of authentic fire. One cannot help following the lure of her erratic and lovable personality as it meanders and twinkles through page after page. There is something noble and Quixotic and high-spirited, as well as crack-brained and bird-witted, about her. Her simplicity is so open; her intelligence so active; her sympathy with fairies and animals so true and tender. She has the freakishness of an elf, the irresponsibility of some nonhuman creature, its heartlessness, and its charm.’
But Margaret wanted the whole house to move three feet to the left. It was indescribable what she wanted. She was restless. She wanted to work. She wanted to be thirty people. She wanted to wear a cap of pearls and a coat of bright blue diamonds. To live as nature does, in many ages, in many brains."
. . . but before Margaret can say a thing in all that noise, William has her elbow and is guiding her through the crowd.
"Congratulations!" she tells him once their carriage door is shut.
"No, no," he says, "congratulations to you."
The horses lurch ahead, crossing the Fleet in the dark.
"Is something amiss?" she asks, placing the mask in her lap.
The river oozes beneath them, a blacker sort of black.
"What could be wrong?"
The driver turns north onto John.
"Only tell me," he finally says, looking out into the night, "exactly who wears such a gown to an evening at the theater?"
"The 'femme forte'," she explains, "a woman dressed in armor."
"Do you think you are Cleopatra?" he asks.
Margaret bristles. She fingers the mask. "I had rather appear worse in singularity," she says, "than better in the mode."
"Do not quote to me from your books," he snaps.
The driver flicks his whip. (p.140)