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No one, including myself, can begin to calculate how many hours Iíve fantasized myself into one of those quiet Austenian drawing rooms pretending to do needlework while a hottie in skintight trousers sent me meaningful glances from across the room. Iíve read Pride and Prejudice at least twenty times, and Austenís other five major novels at least a dozen times. Iíve watched my two-DVD set of the BBCís P&P so many times I could practically act it out end to end, all five hours of it. Sometimes, and especially lately, the only thing that makes sense in my world is Jane Austen.
Could all those viewings, combined with all those re-readings, have resulted in my finding myself living someone elseís life, in someone elseís body, in, of all places, Jane Austenís England?