The continuing account of reading A Night in the Lonesome October with an nine-year-old, out loud and during the day.
Lily dug this one. She caught on to the theme of the Great Detective's assistant suffering unfortunate mishaps with distressing regularity, and she thought that was funny.
Somehow my voice for Needle wound up sounding suspiciously like Mickey Mouse's, but I couldn't stop doing it once I started.
I'd seen Vicar Roberts many times on my rambles, a fat little man, dundrearied, and wearing old-fashioned, square-lensed, gold-framed spectacles. I'd been told that he often grew very red of complexion at the high points of sermons, splattering little droplets of spittle about, and that he was sometimes given to fits of twitchings followed by unconsciousness and strange transports.
I explained what dundrearied meant (having conspicuous sideburns) and she'll thank me when it comes time to take her SATs.
I've mentioned that she was not a fan of Gahan Wilson's artwork. I usually share her opinion, but I happen to like this drawing of the Vicar.
Lily: What is this?!
Me: I like this picture.
Lily: He looks like a potato.
Lily: (pointing) Here. Potato body, potato face, potato hands.
It's hard to dispute that. That jaw sure looks like a sideways potato.
The Vicar's pretty fun to read if you ham it up and I sure did when he was shouting about Creatures of the Night and Unholy Practices and Living Blasphemies and Things Like That.
She dug the chapter. Never once did she consider the possibility that he was a misguided zealot; she jumped immediately to the conclusion that he was an outright villain.