Published in 1887, A Vision of the Past is a dream related in the first person narrative style. On a "sultry afternoon in July" the unnamed narrator decides to sit down beneath a tree, after "toiling along a straight and exceedingly dusty road" for a respite from the heat and drudgery of the road. After falling asleep, the narrator dreams that he goes back into Earth's primordial past, where he sees a reptilian creature with three eyes, walking along the bank of a large lake in he shadow of a volcano. Soon, more of these creatures appear and the first begins a "philosophic discourse" with them relating on how they are the superior creatures who will reign over the earth forever. Knowing better, the narrator foolishly rushes into their midst and informs them that, on the contrary, will become extinct and are there only to prepare the way for the creatures who come after them, who in turn, will prepare the way for the creatures who come after them, and so on until the way is made for human beings, of which the narrator is a prime example. The creatures rush at the narrator, ready to devour him, and he makes a successful effort to wake up.
This story could be seen as a commentary on man's own egocentric sense of his immortal self, in that our society, thinking it is the most advanced in history and the future, thinks it will go on being so and that nothing better will ever come along to surpass its achievements; unless a creature that is further advanced than we are comes along, as the narrator in this story does, to educate us on our misguided sense of superiority.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Review of The Secret Year
The Secret Year is a YA romance novel which strives for literary credibility, yet there is very little romance, and the writing never comes close to being classified at literature.
The story is narrated by Colt Morrissey, a boy from the poor section of town called "the flats", who had a year long secret affair with Julia, a rich girl who lived on the affluent heights of the heavenly Black Mountain. The two met roughly once a week down by a river in the flats. Mostly for sex, but sometimes they'd talk. Colt and Julia were not in a relationship since she had a boyfriend she was unwilling to break up with, and Colt wanted nothing more than their physical liaison (which makes his later devastation with her and claims of love for her unbelievable).
Shortly after her accidental death in a car accident, Julia's brother gives Colt her journal/letters addressed to C. M. (Colt Morrissey). Over the next few months, Colt reads through the journal as his life goes on without her. He can't get over her death and behaves as though it was a life altering event for him, even though his life is little different than it was when they were together as their time together was often infrequent and each liaison lasted only a few hours, if that.
At the end of the story, despite having dated two other girls in the space of only a few months (both relationships end because Colt's refusal to let go of Julia's memory) and getting rid of Julia's diary, the reader is left feeling that Colt will never let go of Julia, and that this brief, superficial affair will determine his decisions for the remainder of his life.
The dialogue in The Secret Year is often unrealistic and amateurish. I'm surprised most of it got past the editor it's so bad. The narrative is better, but not by much.
Colt Morrissey, the main character/narrator, is unlikable and weak. He whines and complains more than Louis in Interview with the Vampire. Colt is from a bad neighborhood, the type where one has to be tough and ready to rumble; yet the author fails to capture this aspect of his character, and there is no difference between him and the rich kids used to form a contrast, other than the setting in which he lives.
The reader is given three sides to Julia, yet none of them are ever revealed as the truth. We see her mostly through Colt's "love" stricken eyes as the perfect goddess who comes down from her lofty heights to spend a few hours with Colt. Yet this persona does not quite ring true. In the few diary entries the reader is made privy to (and which are too sparsely scattered throughout the book considering how important the journal is to be), Julia "sounds" completely different than she does in her dialogue in her scenes with Colt; but we do get a sense of her as a "normal" though unreal sounding teenage girl.
We get a few other glimpses of Julia through other characters, but this Julia is a cold, heartless villain who was using Colt to satisfy her own psychological hang ups. However, this Julia is probably closer to the truth.
The other characters that populate the novel are as flavorful as a strip of cardboard, and as thin as a flake of onion skin. (Examples: alcoholic, homophobic father who is rarely present, mother who for no apparent reason has chosen Colt as her arch nemesis and spends every scene she's in belittling or beleaguering her son.) This is unfortunate because all of these shallowly formed denizens of The Secret Year seem more interesting than the main character.
Even for a first novel, this book disappoints. It did not take long to read, though, so at least not too much of my time was wasted.
Cannibals and Evil Cult Killers Review
Having "Evil" as a description in the title and the subtitle, "The most unthinkable and heinous crimes" and subheading "The darkest, innermost secrets of cannibals and evil cult killers are revealed" brings into question the integrity of this book and makes plain its purpose as a source of income for the author and publisher rather than a serious work about cannibals and cult killers.
The entries in the book provide a good starting point for further research; but is a poor reference for any paper or book one may be working on. There are more informative and likely more reliable articles on Wikipedia about the crimes recounted in this book. This book is full of spelling and grammatical errors, lacks a bibliography and there are no citations whatsoever letting the reader know where the author gathered his information about the crimes. And if all of that isn't enough to make one question the veracity of the listings in this book, the author refers to the "late Jimmy Carter" even though Mr Carter is still very much alive. If the author makes that large of an error, one can not help but question what other facts he got wrong.
Monday, June 15, 2015
Review: A Family Elopement by H. G. Wells Published Oct 4 1894 (SPOILERS)
Published on October 4, 1894 in The
Star, Christchurch, A Family Elopement is an early short story
written by H. G. Wells, although the story credited to St. James'
Budget.
The main character is a Mr. Gabbittas,
who, as the story opens, is sneaking some time with his mistress,
Miss Hawkins, at a dinner party; while Mrs. Gabbitas is enraptured by
the conversation of Jamasji Ganpat, a Theosophist from India. As the
story progresses, Mr Gabbitas decides he's had enough of his wife and
plans to run away with his mistress. However, once they arrive at the
train station, Mr. Gabbitas notices a trunk that looks to be one
belonging to him, before discovering that his wife is there to elope
with her lover, Ganpat, the Theosophist. To avoid scandal, the
messieurs decide to travel together to Paris, while the women will
go to Lisbon.
What could have been a comedy of
errors, never quite succeeds at being humorous. Although on the
surface it appears that the story is rather superficial, on a deeper
level, it can be seen as a commentary on how, in modern society, one
is not free to follow their hearts because he/she is mired too deeply
in the trappings of respectability to ever be truly liberated as a
human being.
It could be said that all's well that
ends well, yet all is not well because in the end, none of the
characters are happy with the outcome or their current situations.
They are simply carrying on as society demands they do, as opposed to
what they want to do.
A quick read, though, I did not find it
very enjoyable.
If you wish to read the story yourself, it is available on Story Pilot: A Family Elopement Complete Text
A Family Elopement
by H.G. Wells
from a scan of The Star, Christchurch, October 4, 1894 Your wife does not notice our being together?” asked Miss Hawkins. “I think not,” said Mr Gabbitas; “she is talking to that Theosophist.” The Theosophist was a slender young man from India, but his hair might have come from the Soudan. Mrs Gabbitas was a lady with intellectual features of a Roman type; and a shallow desire for profundity. She was clearly very much interested in what the Hindoo had to say; so Miss Hawkins turned again to Gabbitas. “I said, I cannot go on like this,” said Gabbitas. “Speak lower,” said Miss Hawkins. “I cannot go on like this—dearest,” said Gabbitas, trying to put as much tender passion as possible into a hoarse whisper. “What can we do?” said Miss Hawkins. “So much as we dare do—flight,” said Gabbitas. “Let us get out of all this into a sunnier clime—” “Hush! They are coming to ask me to sing,” said Miss Hawkins. “Presently. Wait.”
Page | 2
Mr Gabbitas yielded her up at this crisis with the best grace he could, and went and propped himself against a wall where he could watch her profile. “She is awf’ly clever,” said the refined young gentleman to the left of him, to his friend. “And virtuous,” said his friend. “But that’s a mistake. She really ought to do something just a little—cheerful, you know. People are not going to run after singers just because they sing, you know.” “She knows that,” said the refined young gentleman. “She’s clever enough. There will be an exploit—” “Good Heavens!” said Gabbitas under his breath. “Such motives in my sweet little Minnie. I can’t stand this.” And he hastily sought a vacant piece of wall elsewhere. “It is sweet to be with you again,” he whispered to her presently, with a sense of infinite relief. “And now, dearest, frankly, will you, dare you—come with me? If you knew, dearest, how I have longed for you, how my soul craves— So” (very loud) “I had a very jolly time indeed.” The latter inane sentence because somebody had loomed up just behind Miss Hawkins’s chair. “Gone now,” said Gabbitas. “Tell me, dearest, quickly. Whisper. Dare you?” [Pause.] “For you,” whispered Miss Hawkins very softly, looking down. Gabbitas took that as an affirmative. “My darling, my own! The warmth will show. I mean to say— Do you find the room hot?” “What disconcerts you now?” “I caught Mrs Gabbitas’s eye just then. I think she wants to go home. That Theosophist has left her.”
Page | 3
Now qualified observers state that a man who means to run away from his wife, even if that wife have features Roman rather that beautiful and a tendency to theosophy, suffers considerable twinges of compunction. Gab- bitas certainly did. Even if one’s marriage is chiefly a success from the merce- nary point of view, a habit of mutual consideration grows insensibly out of the necessity of a common life. “It was a very successful affair, dear,” he remarked. “They had some lovely sandwiches, I noticed.” “Yes,” said Mrs Gabbitas, turning dreamy eyes upon him. “The sandwiches were lovely, and the decorations were lovely too. And the music. It has been the most lovely evening I can imagine.” “I am glad you liked it so much, dear.” She smiled mysteriously at him. She seemed to be suddenly affected with an unusual tenderness. “Dear husband,” she said. “What is up now?” thought Gabbitas. “She is not going to pump me.” And he remarked, “Yes, dear.” “You have always been a good husband to me, dear.” “Ra-ther,” said Gabbitas privately; and aloud, “Always.” “You may kiss me, dear.” Gabbitas did as he was bid, and that was all. After this treat Mrs Gabbitas relapsed into her corner. She did not suspect, then, after all. Gabbitas was greatly relieved. Yet she had never spoken in quite this way before. If she meant to develop sentimentality, a new inducement was added to elope- ment. And again and again, and yet again, there times altogether in a fortnight, Mrs Gabbitas returned to this same peculiar soft mood. One or two things she
Page | 4
said startled Gabbitas extremely at the time. However, he kept on accumulat- ing his luggage at his chambers nevertheless, for he was a hard man. “She cannot know,” he said to himself, following her with his eyes, after one of these conversations. “No; if she knew she would make a shindy. She would certainly make a shindy. I know her disposition. I suppose she has got this new style from some novel. Poor old Mimsie!” As he went by her door he paused momentarily, for she seemed to be on her knees and weeping by the bed-side. That was through looking out of the corners of his eyes. When he looked straight he saw that she was only packing a dress-basket, and he went on downstairs relieved. Five days after the last of these remarkable conversations Gabbitas found himself on the Southampton platform of Waterloo Station with a large pile of boxes, masculine and feminine, in his care, and an exhilarating sense of wrong-doing in his heart. Miss Hawkins mingled timidity and self-possession delightfully. “This is the end of London and respectability,” said Gabbitas. “And the beginning of life, dear,” said Miss Hawkins. “Here is our luggage,” said Gabbitas. By the side of their heap was a similar one. A little portmanteau in this caught his eye. It seemed familiar. “Is not that mine?” he asked the porter. “Mrs Da Costa,” read the porter on the label; “for Lisbon.” “No, that is not mine,” said Gabbitas. “And yet it seemed * * * somehow * * * funny. We should see that our seats have not been taken, I think, now, dear.” At the door of their compartment a man was standing with his back towards them. He was evidently a foreigner; his hair formed a peculiar frizzy
Page | 5
mat, such as no Englishman could or would exhibit. As they approached he turned. There was a pause of mutual inquiry. “Mr Jamasji Ganpat,” said Gabbitas. Mr Ganpat, the eminent theosophist, looked at them stupidly. He seemed scared for a moment. Then his face lit up. He raised his hat. “Mr Gabbitas— with Miss Hawkins!” Miss Hawkins turned half-round to pull a loose thread out of her travelling-rug. “We are going down to Southampton,” said Mr Gabbitas, collecting his re- sources. “Together. To meet Mrs Gabbitas.” “Indeed!” said Mr Ganpat, and his eye wandered round to the waiting room door. He seemed nervous. “Do you know,” he said, “I think I must * * * I had better * * * It is unfortunate. Excuse me.” He turned his back suddenly and hurried away. “It was better to recognize him,” said Gabbitas. “How nervous he seems. I wonder if he suspects. Perhaps he is shocked. Hullo!” Ganpat had not been able to reach the door of the waiting-room in time. It opened. Somebody appeared in a grey travelling-dress—a flaxen-haired lady, with Roman features, smiling sweetly at him. “Mimsie!” exclaimed Gabbitas, with addenda. “Mrs Gabbitas!” said Miss Hawkins. The smile of Mrs Gabbitas died away at the sight of Ganpat’s alarmed vis- age. She sought over his shoulder for the cause. “Oh, my poor George!” she exclaimed faintly. And then she saw Miss Hawkins. “You!”
Page | 6
“Take your seats!” howled the guard; “take your seats, please!” “I suppose,” said Gabbitas, finding curses sotto voce no comfort, “under the circumstances we had all better get in together and explain.” And in a minute four singularly depressed and silent people were travel- ling in a first-class compartment out of Waterloo Station. It was one of those conversations that are difficult to begin. Mrs Gabbitas broke the silence at Vauxhall. “This is perfectly ridiculous,” she said abruptly and hotly. “Idiotic! We can’t do anything now.” “That, dear, is just what I feel,” said Miss Hawkins very slowly and without looking up, making a new kind of sinuous strip. “It will not be even a romantic scandal,” said Mrs Gabbitas with tears in her voice. “Nothing original. It will be just funny. Horrible! Beastly!” The meeting lapsed into silence. “I do not know,” said Mr Ganpat with a half laugh. “What. It is funny.” Again meditation reigned. Beyond Clapham Gabbitas cleared his throat. “Yes?” said Mrs Gabbitas. “We have,” said Gabbitas, “got into this mess, and we have to get out of it. I and Ganpat might fight—” “No,” said Ganpat. “Ladies present! No fight.” “We might fight,” said Gabbitas; “but I do not see exactly what we should be fighting for.” “Precisely,” said Ganpat. “Nothing worth fighting for.” He smiled reassur- ingly at Mrs Gabbitas. “The reputations of the ladies must not suffer,” said Gabbitas.
Page | 7
“Again precisely,” said Ganpat, becoming animated. “And now you hear me. Now I will tell you. What will we do? Here is Mrs Gabbitas and Miss Haw- kins. They go—they go with us to Southampton. Quite proper that, eh? Hear me to my final end. Then we part. I and you, Mr Gabbitas, I and you go to Par- is. Is not that well? It is an excursion that we have planned. You, my—I mean Madam—you, Madam, go with Miss Hawkins. You go to—go to—” “Lisbon will be far enough, as the things are labelled.” “Ye-es,” said Miss Hawkins, taking her strips and tearing them trans- versely into squares. “It’s sensible. I am sure I don’t mind. Now.” “That is admirable. What do you say, Gabbitas?” The eye of Gabbitas rested on Miss Hawkins for a moment. “This is a beastly mess,” he said. Miss Hawkins glanced up, and he fancied she nodded imperceptibly. He turned to Ganpat. “Very well, that will do.” “We have all been very silly,” said Mrs Gabbitas—“idiots, in fact.” “And, as far as I can see,” said her husband, “nobody can throw stones.” “Dere is no injured innocents in this carriage at all,” said Mr Jamasji Ganpat. “And now,” said Mrs Gabbitas, “everything being settled, let us talk of something else.” “Ringlets,” said Miss Hawkins, making her paper scraps into two heaps in her lap; “ringlets, dear, are coming into fashion after all.” —credited to St. James’s Budget (no indication of H.G. Wells) ========================
A Family Elopement
by H.G. Wells
from a scan of The Star, Christchurch, October 4, 1894 Your wife does not notice our being together?” asked Miss Hawkins. “I think not,” said Mr Gabbitas; “she is talking to that Theosophist.” The Theosophist was a slender young man from India, but his hair might have come from the Soudan. Mrs Gabbitas was a lady with intellectual features of a Roman type; and a shallow desire for profundity. She was clearly very much interested in what the Hindoo had to say; so Miss Hawkins turned again to Gabbitas. “I said, I cannot go on like this,” said Gabbitas. “Speak lower,” said Miss Hawkins. “I cannot go on like this—dearest,” said Gabbitas, trying to put as much tender passion as possible into a hoarse whisper. “What can we do?” said Miss Hawkins. “So much as we dare do—flight,” said Gabbitas. “Let us get out of all this into a sunnier clime—” “Hush! They are coming to ask me to sing,” said Miss Hawkins. “Presently. Wait.”
Page | 2
Mr Gabbitas yielded her up at this crisis with the best grace he could, and went and propped himself against a wall where he could watch her profile. “She is awf’ly clever,” said the refined young gentleman to the left of him, to his friend. “And virtuous,” said his friend. “But that’s a mistake. She really ought to do something just a little—cheerful, you know. People are not going to run after singers just because they sing, you know.” “She knows that,” said the refined young gentleman. “She’s clever enough. There will be an exploit—” “Good Heavens!” said Gabbitas under his breath. “Such motives in my sweet little Minnie. I can’t stand this.” And he hastily sought a vacant piece of wall elsewhere. “It is sweet to be with you again,” he whispered to her presently, with a sense of infinite relief. “And now, dearest, frankly, will you, dare you—come with me? If you knew, dearest, how I have longed for you, how my soul craves— So” (very loud) “I had a very jolly time indeed.” The latter inane sentence because somebody had loomed up just behind Miss Hawkins’s chair. “Gone now,” said Gabbitas. “Tell me, dearest, quickly. Whisper. Dare you?” [Pause.] “For you,” whispered Miss Hawkins very softly, looking down. Gabbitas took that as an affirmative. “My darling, my own! The warmth will show. I mean to say— Do you find the room hot?” “What disconcerts you now?” “I caught Mrs Gabbitas’s eye just then. I think she wants to go home. That Theosophist has left her.”
Page | 3
Now qualified observers state that a man who means to run away from his wife, even if that wife have features Roman rather that beautiful and a tendency to theosophy, suffers considerable twinges of compunction. Gab- bitas certainly did. Even if one’s marriage is chiefly a success from the merce- nary point of view, a habit of mutual consideration grows insensibly out of the necessity of a common life. “It was a very successful affair, dear,” he remarked. “They had some lovely sandwiches, I noticed.” “Yes,” said Mrs Gabbitas, turning dreamy eyes upon him. “The sandwiches were lovely, and the decorations were lovely too. And the music. It has been the most lovely evening I can imagine.” “I am glad you liked it so much, dear.” She smiled mysteriously at him. She seemed to be suddenly affected with an unusual tenderness. “Dear husband,” she said. “What is up now?” thought Gabbitas. “She is not going to pump me.” And he remarked, “Yes, dear.” “You have always been a good husband to me, dear.” “Ra-ther,” said Gabbitas privately; and aloud, “Always.” “You may kiss me, dear.” Gabbitas did as he was bid, and that was all. After this treat Mrs Gabbitas relapsed into her corner. She did not suspect, then, after all. Gabbitas was greatly relieved. Yet she had never spoken in quite this way before. If she meant to develop sentimentality, a new inducement was added to elope- ment. And again and again, and yet again, there times altogether in a fortnight, Mrs Gabbitas returned to this same peculiar soft mood. One or two things she
Page | 4
said startled Gabbitas extremely at the time. However, he kept on accumulat- ing his luggage at his chambers nevertheless, for he was a hard man. “She cannot know,” he said to himself, following her with his eyes, after one of these conversations. “No; if she knew she would make a shindy. She would certainly make a shindy. I know her disposition. I suppose she has got this new style from some novel. Poor old Mimsie!” As he went by her door he paused momentarily, for she seemed to be on her knees and weeping by the bed-side. That was through looking out of the corners of his eyes. When he looked straight he saw that she was only packing a dress-basket, and he went on downstairs relieved. Five days after the last of these remarkable conversations Gabbitas found himself on the Southampton platform of Waterloo Station with a large pile of boxes, masculine and feminine, in his care, and an exhilarating sense of wrong-doing in his heart. Miss Hawkins mingled timidity and self-possession delightfully. “This is the end of London and respectability,” said Gabbitas. “And the beginning of life, dear,” said Miss Hawkins. “Here is our luggage,” said Gabbitas. By the side of their heap was a similar one. A little portmanteau in this caught his eye. It seemed familiar. “Is not that mine?” he asked the porter. “Mrs Da Costa,” read the porter on the label; “for Lisbon.” “No, that is not mine,” said Gabbitas. “And yet it seemed * * * somehow * * * funny. We should see that our seats have not been taken, I think, now, dear.” At the door of their compartment a man was standing with his back towards them. He was evidently a foreigner; his hair formed a peculiar frizzy
Page | 5
mat, such as no Englishman could or would exhibit. As they approached he turned. There was a pause of mutual inquiry. “Mr Jamasji Ganpat,” said Gabbitas. Mr Ganpat, the eminent theosophist, looked at them stupidly. He seemed scared for a moment. Then his face lit up. He raised his hat. “Mr Gabbitas— with Miss Hawkins!” Miss Hawkins turned half-round to pull a loose thread out of her travelling-rug. “We are going down to Southampton,” said Mr Gabbitas, collecting his re- sources. “Together. To meet Mrs Gabbitas.” “Indeed!” said Mr Ganpat, and his eye wandered round to the waiting room door. He seemed nervous. “Do you know,” he said, “I think I must * * * I had better * * * It is unfortunate. Excuse me.” He turned his back suddenly and hurried away. “It was better to recognize him,” said Gabbitas. “How nervous he seems. I wonder if he suspects. Perhaps he is shocked. Hullo!” Ganpat had not been able to reach the door of the waiting-room in time. It opened. Somebody appeared in a grey travelling-dress—a flaxen-haired lady, with Roman features, smiling sweetly at him. “Mimsie!” exclaimed Gabbitas, with addenda. “Mrs Gabbitas!” said Miss Hawkins. The smile of Mrs Gabbitas died away at the sight of Ganpat’s alarmed vis- age. She sought over his shoulder for the cause. “Oh, my poor George!” she exclaimed faintly. And then she saw Miss Hawkins. “You!”
Page | 6
“Take your seats!” howled the guard; “take your seats, please!” “I suppose,” said Gabbitas, finding curses sotto voce no comfort, “under the circumstances we had all better get in together and explain.” And in a minute four singularly depressed and silent people were travel- ling in a first-class compartment out of Waterloo Station. It was one of those conversations that are difficult to begin. Mrs Gabbitas broke the silence at Vauxhall. “This is perfectly ridiculous,” she said abruptly and hotly. “Idiotic! We can’t do anything now.” “That, dear, is just what I feel,” said Miss Hawkins very slowly and without looking up, making a new kind of sinuous strip. “It will not be even a romantic scandal,” said Mrs Gabbitas with tears in her voice. “Nothing original. It will be just funny. Horrible! Beastly!” The meeting lapsed into silence. “I do not know,” said Mr Ganpat with a half laugh. “What. It is funny.” Again meditation reigned. Beyond Clapham Gabbitas cleared his throat. “Yes?” said Mrs Gabbitas. “We have,” said Gabbitas, “got into this mess, and we have to get out of it. I and Ganpat might fight—” “No,” said Ganpat. “Ladies present! No fight.” “We might fight,” said Gabbitas; “but I do not see exactly what we should be fighting for.” “Precisely,” said Ganpat. “Nothing worth fighting for.” He smiled reassur- ingly at Mrs Gabbitas. “The reputations of the ladies must not suffer,” said Gabbitas.
Page | 7
“Again precisely,” said Ganpat, becoming animated. “And now you hear me. Now I will tell you. What will we do? Here is Mrs Gabbitas and Miss Haw- kins. They go—they go with us to Southampton. Quite proper that, eh? Hear me to my final end. Then we part. I and you, Mr Gabbitas, I and you go to Par- is. Is not that well? It is an excursion that we have planned. You, my—I mean Madam—you, Madam, go with Miss Hawkins. You go to—go to—” “Lisbon will be far enough, as the things are labelled.” “Ye-es,” said Miss Hawkins, taking her strips and tearing them trans- versely into squares. “It’s sensible. I am sure I don’t mind. Now.” “That is admirable. What do you say, Gabbitas?” The eye of Gabbitas rested on Miss Hawkins for a moment. “This is a beastly mess,” he said. Miss Hawkins glanced up, and he fancied she nodded imperceptibly. He turned to Ganpat. “Very well, that will do.” “We have all been very silly,” said Mrs Gabbitas—“idiots, in fact.” “And, as far as I can see,” said her husband, “nobody can throw stones.” “Dere is no injured innocents in this carriage at all,” said Mr Jamasji Ganpat. “And now,” said Mrs Gabbitas, “everything being settled, let us talk of something else.” “Ringlets,” said Miss Hawkins, making her paper scraps into two heaps in her lap; “ringlets, dear, are coming into fashion after all.” —credited to St. James’s Budget (no indication of H.G. Wells) ========================
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