Crocodile on the Sandbank (Amelia Peabody, #1)

by Elizabeth Peters

Papa preferred his languages dead. He was a devoted student of the past, and emerged from it only occasionally, when he would blink at me and express surprise at how I had grown since he last noticed my existence.

One might say that he gradually shriveled up and ran down.

What the hell!?

Other attempts ensued. I was visited by streams of attentive nieces and nephews assuring me of their devotion—which had been demonstrated, over the past years, by their absence.

HahHahhahaha

and I have been informed that eyes of so deep a gray, set under such forbidding black brows, strike terror into the beholder even when they are beaming with benevolence—which my eyes seldom do.

Yet no sooner had we reached Rome than Miss Pritchett succumbed to the typhoid, like the weak-minded female she was.

"Damn, Daniel."

I could not endure a man who would let himself be ruled by me, and I would not endure a man who tried to rule me.

I may say, without undue egotism, that when I make up my mind to do something, it is done quickly. The lethargic old city of the Popes fairly quaked under my ruthless hand during the following week.

hahhha

But she was not a doll, and she soon made that fact apparent. I don’t know quite how she accomplished it, for she never openly countermanded an order or contradicted me; but she eventually acquired a wardrobe that was charming and simple and astonishingly inexpensive. And, in the process, I somehow acquired half a dozen new frocks of my own, which I had had no intention of buying.

“Sir,” I said, looking him up and down. “I do not know you—” “But I know you, madam! I have met your kind too often —the rampageous British female at her clumsiest and most arrogant.

“But what of the curses of M. Emerson?” Maspero asked, his eyes twinkling. “Regardez—he is about to say unkind things to me again.” “Never fear,” Emerson snarled. “I am leaving. I can only stand so many minutes in this horror house of yours. In God’s name, man, why don’t you classify your pots?”

I have rarely seen such an unconvincing dramatic performance.

his trousers were so close-fitting that when he sat down I expected something to rip.

Hahahaha

But even when we saw them I was aware of some of the abuses Emerson had talked about. Fragments of paint and plaster were constantly flaking off the walls, which were dulled by the smoke from the candles carried by the guides. Visiting travelers were no more careful than the uninformed Egyptians; as we stood in one tomb I watched an American gentleman calmly walk away with a fallen bit of stone that bore a pretty picture of a young calf. I shouted at him, but Evelyn prevented me when I would have pursued him to retrieve the fragment. As she pointed out, someone else would have taken it anyway.

As for myself, I thought often of Emerson, though not, of course, in the same way Evelyn regarded his young brother. No; the thought of Emerson was a stinging mosquito, which produced an itching spot that constantly demanded to be rubbed.

The key to the regeneration of Egypt lies in the women. So long as they are forced into marriage and motherhood long before they are ready for such responsibilities—sold to the highest bidder like animals, untrained in even the rudiments of sanitation and housekeeping, untaught, unassisted, and degraded—so long will the country fail to realize its potential.

“I believe you, Miss Peabody; there is no cause for alarm with you here. I believe you would square off at Satan if he came around and inconvenienced you!”

“Let him go, Walter,” I said. “You know he is too stubborn to listen to reason. What we need now is a council of war; we must consult Abdullah, and also Michael, who is an astute man. I can think of several things we might do, but we may as well wait until after your brother has fainted, then he won’t be in our way, arguing and shouting. I think we can drag him back to camp from here. If not, Abdullah and Michael can come for him.” Emerson was still on his feet when we reached the camp. Walter took him into their tomb for restorative action; then we met for the suggested council of war.

and I turned to Walter, who was staring after his brother. “He is weak with exhaustion, Walter. You had better—” “No,” said Walter. “I don’t think so.” “What is wrong with him, then?” Walter shook his head dazedly. “It is impossible… But if I did not know better, I would swear he was laughing.”

I did not think it worthwhile to dignify this remark with a reply. Giving him a haughty look, I went to my corner.

Watching his beaming face, hearing his jovial tones, I could understand why Mr. Dickens’ Scrooge found his jolly nephew so irritating.

“He had not even the courage to make his excuses to you,” Lucas said, “Depend upon it, he has crept away.”

Sutup you arse

“And what about me?” I asked. Emerson was unable to ignore the opportunity. “God help the poor mummy who encounters you, Peabody,” he said bitterly. “We ought to supply it with a pistol, to even the odds.”

A woman’s instinct, I always feel, supersedes logic.

I was relieved to find that Emerson’s assessment was correct. I had not had any experience with gunshot wounds, but a common-sense knowledge of anatomy assured me that the bullet had gone through the fleshy part of the right shoulder, without striking a bone.

Thank goodness!

“Then what shall we do?” “You, asking for advice? Let me feel your brow, Peabody, I am sure you must be fevered.” “Really, your manners are atrocious,” I exclaimed angrily.

“Good God! You are the one who fails to understand; don’t you realize there is not another woman living whom I would—” He broke off.

He liiiiiikes her :)

There are trinkets, mementos I cannot part with; I will keep them to remind me of my errors. Not in any spirit of self-flagellation,” she added, with another affectionate look at me. “I have too much to be thankful for to indulge in that error.”