“When was this book written, Georgiana?” I asked, knowing that it must have been printed some decades ago, when my great friend Betsy Giniver could have been at best a girl.
Somewhat flustered, Georgiana turned to the front of the book, and informed me that it had been printed in Paris some thirty years ago, some years before what you termed La Terroir (La Terreur?). “Yet it is not so old-fashioned a book!” she assured me, concerned at my disapproval.
I assured her that it was not, that I enjoy epistolary novels enormously, and that the story was most entertaining, but that something that she had read had struck me, and so I wished to know more about the book’s provenance. I thanked her, attempting to calm my growing fury, and begged her to continue.
For it was clear to me: Lady Malkin
