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A man was attacking me with a wet handkerchief.

Gail Carriger

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Gail Carriger
Age: 48
Born: 1976
Born: May 4
Archaeologist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Bolinas
California
Wet
Attacking
Men
Handkerchief
Handkerchiefs

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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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The Gamma paused. “You have a crazed werewolf in your wine cellar?” “You can think of a better place to stash him?” “What about the wine?
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There are words to describe her, my dear, but one does not repeat them in polite company.
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Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?
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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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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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You do realise modern social mores exist for a reason? I was hungry, allowances should be made.
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As with most things in life, Lady Maccon preferred the civilized exterior to the dark underbelly (with the exception of pork products, of course.)
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I had a recent delivery of new fashion plates from Paris, and you hardly glanced at the hairstyles. My husband tells me you are still having difficulty controlling the change. And your cravat has been tied very simply of late, even for evening events.
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It's no good choosing your first husband from a school for evil geniuses. Much too difficult to kill.
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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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Lord Akeldama sighed. 'You lovebirds, how will I endure such flirtations constantly in my company? How déclassé, Lord Maccon, to love your own wife.
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Alexia gave in to his demanding touch, but only, of course, because he sounded so pathetic. It had nothing, whatsoever to do with her own quickening heartbeat.
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Rail is such an undignified way to travel. All that rapid racing about. Floating has so much more gravitas.
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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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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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Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted *things*, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table.
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Poetry can cause irreparable harm when misapplied
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Lyall understood a broken heart, but it could not be allowed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.
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Ah, Ivy, thought Alexia happily, spreading a verbal fog wherever she goes.
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