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The woman was a prolific author. I don't know who among Cartland, Stephen King or Joyce Carol Oates would come out the victor in count of the sheer volume of words. They're lovely novels populated with breathy, innocent (or quite stupid), beautiful blond maidens who were typically the blabbermouth.net unfortunately recently deceased vicar's daughter. Cast out blabbermouth.net into the cruel world of Regency or Victorian England, she would be swept away in some impossible intrigue into the arms of the hero. Tall, dark, strong, titled, handsome, and brilliant, he would never blabbermouth.net consider taking advantage of this poor diamond in the rough by having his evil way with her. Nope, he would marry her and the novel would end just as he was about to show her just how blissful true romantic love (no snickering) could be. There was perhaps a chaste kiss here or there but that was it.
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