Sublime

“Top of the page: the title. Title.” Mr. Dickens mused, head down, rubbing his chin whiskers. “Pip, what’s a rare fine title for a novel that happens half in London, half in Paris?” “A—” I ventured. “Yes?” “A Tale,” I went on. “Yes?!” “A Tale of . . . Two Cities?!” “Madame!” Grandma looked up as he spoke. “This boy is a genius!”

Grace Macaulay, then: seventeen, small and plump, with skin that went brown by the end of May. Her hair was black and oily, and had the hot consoling scent of an animal in summer. She disliked books, and was by nature a thief if she found a thing to be beautiful, but not hers. She didn’t know she couldn’t sing. She was inclined to be cross.

Later, confirming my hunch that she was an eccentric woman, Mrs. Martínez bought a parrot, which she named Carlos but insisted I refer to as Mr. Carlos. Sometimes I would purposely call him Carlos just to upset Mrs. Martínez. I was scared of this bird but still had to feed him. And as long as I did my chores, Mrs. Martínez didn’t seem to care if I

sartorial

Penny cast a glance toward the bird in her cage. “Delilah is more effective than you’d suppose. Certainly a better chaperone than Mrs. Robbins would be.” “Sadly accurate,” Alex said.

"They don't kill birds, and apparently they do kill cats," Terry declared. "MUST be men here. Hark!"

pettishly.

‘You’re our longest-serving contributor,’ said Carleton, flinching at the bang. ‘Our most admired. Indeed I should say our most popular.’ I’m beginning to speak like him, he thought: Thomas Hart is catching, that’s the trouble. ‘I’ve often heard it said that it’s a consolation – that’s the general feeling, as I said to the board – to wake on Thursd