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Classic author moment, Oh dear, did I kill that character or not?

Gail Carriger

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Gail Carriger
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: May 4
Archaeologist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Bolinas
California
Moment
Moments
Character
Author
Classic
Dear
Kill

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One should do what one is best at on as large a scale as possible.
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My father, she admitted, was of Italian extraction. Unfortunately, not an affliction that can be cured. She paused. Though he did die.
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So, what do you think, my dear, will it be a girl or a boy?” “It will be a soul-stealer, apparently.” “What!” The earl reared away from his wife and looked down at her suspiciously.
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I like fish, chirruped Tunstell. Really, Mr. Tunstell? What is your preferred breed? Well--Tunstell hesitated--you know, the um, ones that--he made a swooping motion with both hands--uh, swim.
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He dinna act like an Alpha. He does in some areas.
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Alexia, did you know there is an entire regiment decamping on your front lawn? Laddy Maccon sighed. Really, Ivy, I would never have noticed.
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These things, regrettably, are bound to occur when one is married and befriended.
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Ever since her trip with Alexia to Scotland, Mrs. Tunstell had rather a taste for foreign travel. Alexia blamed it on the kilts.
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He...boasted an unassuming mustache, which was perched atop his upper lip cautiously, as though it were slightly embarrassed to be there and would like to slide away and become a sideburn or something more fashionable.
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Alexia had spent long hours wondering over that mustache. Werewolves did not grow hair, as they did not age. Where had it come from? Had he always had it? For how many centuries had his poor abused upper lip labored under the burden of such vegetation?
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Why did you want to go and distract me like that? I was quite in my element and everything.' Conall laughed. 'Someone has to keep you off balance otherwise you'll end up ruling the empire. Or at least ordering it into wretched submission.
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How ghastly for her, people actually thinking, with their brains, and right next door. Oh, the travesty of it all.
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Poetry can cause irreparable harm when misapplied
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Sophronia was minding her own business and running late to luncheon, as was her custom. She'd let to learn the advantage of punctuality. As she told Sister Mattie the third time she was late to household potions and poisons, nothing interesting happened until after an event commenced.
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She reached inside the wide ruffle and pulled out a little vial. “Poison?” asked Lady Maccon, tilting her head to one side. “Certainly not. Something far more important: perfume. We cannot very well have you fighting crime unscented, now, can we?” “Oh.” Alexia nodded gravely. After all, Madame Lefoux was French. “Certainly not.
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What have I done thins time? he paused to ask before continuing with his oral expedition about her body: her husband, the intrepid explorer.
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Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?
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Madame Lefoux accepted a cup of tea and sat on another little settee, next to the relocated calico cat. The cat clearly believed Madame Lefoux was there to provide chin scratches. Madame Lefoux provided.
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Ivy waved her wet handkerchief, as much as to say 'words cannot possibly articulate my profound distress'. Then, because Ivy never settled for meaningful gestures when verbal embellishments could compound the effect, she said, Words cannot possibly articulate my profound distress.
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Biffy didn't like enigmas - they were out of fashion.
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