Did you know?

The Language of the Flowers was a popular method to express feelings where words might be improper, but did you know other means of doing so? Some ladies used their parasols, as well as their fans, gloves, and hankies to flirt with a gentleman (or alternatively, tell them to shove it!). — Bree

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Iola Hitchens for Elladora Black. The Blacks' black sheep.
This boy, then. He wasn't new. Wasn't one of the worst people in the common room, those rotten rich boys - like Mr. Jailkeeper - who could not fathom a world beyond their own farts. Was a good working class lad, so he'd heard. Had a bit of a weird looking face, and a bit of a weird thing for preaching. Still.

Aubrey Davis in The Under-Sofa

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Post at least once with the same character every day for a month.


Sometimes You Get Some Heat
January 13th, 1889 — The Russell Home, Bartonburg

The house was smaller than she had expected, which lead her to wonder if there was actually some merit to what her father had always said about money going much farther overseas. Had there never been any stolen jewels responsible for the palatial estate in Morocco? Or had the spoils from the Cooper murder just run dry, after so many years?

Whatever the case, Kate liked the house. It was small enough for her to feel as though every bit of it was hers (except for the rooms reserved for the woman who lived with them). It was intimate; cozy. A very small part of her wondered if her father had known she would like it, and had rented something of this size particularly for her, but she dismissed that notion. They were in England for Isaac's sake, not for hers. The house was small because once Isaac was off at school, it would only be her living here, and her father didn't think she would need much. That was all there was to it, and it was foolish to think he had put any more thought into it than that.

Still, it was a nice house. She'd spent the first few days getting acquainted with it, both because she was destined to live here for the next several years, and because she hadn't the courage to go out and face the town just yet. Her face had never been in the newspaper, but she still had a fear that she would be recognized, immediately branded by her connection with her father.

The knock on the door that afternoon startled her, and she sat pondering who might possibly come to their door until the knock came again, a moment later. She had forgotten that there weren't live-in servants in this house. A laundress and a cook would come by a few days a week, but there wasn't anyone waiting around to answer doors for her in England — which meant she would have to face that uncertainty herself.

She forgot there was a such thing as a peephole until after the door was half-opened, and by then it was too late to use it, because she was already face to face with the man who had knocked. "Uhm, hello," she said, wondering absurdly how people were supposed to answer doors in England, since she had never had this particular experience before. "How do you do?"

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