An Impossible Impostor (Veronica Speedwell, #7)

by Deanna Raybourn

It was astonishing, I mused, how often people claimed to be honest when they were simply making a virtue of excessive rudeness.

“How curious that the female should be so drab compared to the male.” “A clear demonstration of the value of the female,” Stoker told her over his shoulder as he uncovered another shrouded case. She blinked behind her smoked spectacles. “How so?” “The female can be small and unremarkable and still attract a mate,” I replied. “But the male requires something special to secure her attention.”

We did not require one another, for neither of us was deficient. But we enhanced one another, we bettered one another.

It has been my experience that when one is accosted by a lowness of spirits due to some failing in one’s character, it becomes a habit to seek out and prod any other failing. Self-loathing is a habit, and one I could not afford to indulge.