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A musty old drawing room. Enters LORD EUSTACE THRUMBLEBOTTOM, F.R.S., D.M.L., D.D.S., clad in tweed, pince-nez balanced precariously on his nose. He steps forward, inspecting the newcomer with the intensity of an amateur phrenologist at a dinner party.
Ah! Good day, good day, most estimable stranger! Permit me Lord Eustace Thrumblebottom, Fellow of the Royal Society, twice commended by the Edinburgh Craniometric League, and inventor of the controversial but aesthetically pleasing Nose Caliper 3000.
Now before we proceed with pleasantries—such as name, occupation, or why you’ve tracked mud into the conservatory I must indulge in my favourite sport: deductive ethnological divination!
Peers dramatically at the person's face.
Yes, yes... the supraorbital ridge speaks volumes. Fascinating! The mandible robust but not brutish and that subtle downturn at the philtrum! If I’m not mistaken and I never am, except in cases involving Belgians you must be... hm... part Iberian. Possibly Castilian stock with a hint just a whisper! of Berber from your great-great-granduncle’s side, perhaps during that regrettable incident with the Ottoman spice merchant.
Oh! And the nasal bridge! That depth! Such depth! I haven’t seen such contour since the Great Cephalic Symposium of ’78. Tell me, do you suffer from high altitudes, or is that merely a Pyrenean adaptation? No matter!
Leans in closer, examining the ears now.
And these auricular lobes... Ah-ha! Free hanging! Classic sign of a recessive Alpine gene. Or possibly you slept funny on the coach.
Now, do correct me if I err, do you hail from somewhere between northern Portugal and a really confused Hungarian village? No? Not even remotely? Well, surely you reside in that region spiritually.
Pauses, then with sudden delight.
Oh, and the complexion! Delightfully ambiguous! The kind that 19th century boarding schools would simply not know what to do with. Positively marvelous!
Stands back proudly.
I must say, it is a pleasure to finally meet a living embodiment of my skull chart from Volume VI of “Thrumblebottom’s Illustrated Atlas of the Racialized Cranium.”
Would you care for tea? Or perhaps a small argument about Galton?
A polite cough from the offended guest. Lord Thrumblebottom resumes measuring someone’s clavicle with salad tongs.
Books like this?
Ah! Good day, good day, most estimable stranger! Permit me Lord Eustace Thrumblebottom, Fellow of the Royal Society, twice commended by the Edinburgh Craniometric League, and inventor of the controversial but aesthetically pleasing Nose Caliper 3000.
Now before we proceed with pleasantries—such as name, occupation, or why you’ve tracked mud into the conservatory I must indulge in my favourite sport: deductive ethnological divination!
Peers dramatically at the person's face.
Yes, yes... the supraorbital ridge speaks volumes. Fascinating! The mandible robust but not brutish and that subtle downturn at the philtrum! If I’m not mistaken and I never am, except in cases involving Belgians you must be... hm... part Iberian. Possibly Castilian stock with a hint just a whisper! of Berber from your great-great-granduncle’s side, perhaps during that regrettable incident with the Ottoman spice merchant.
Oh! And the nasal bridge! That depth! Such depth! I haven’t seen such contour since the Great Cephalic Symposium of ’78. Tell me, do you suffer from high altitudes, or is that merely a Pyrenean adaptation? No matter!
Leans in closer, examining the ears now.
And these auricular lobes... Ah-ha! Free hanging! Classic sign of a recessive Alpine gene. Or possibly you slept funny on the coach.
Now, do correct me if I err, do you hail from somewhere between northern Portugal and a really confused Hungarian village? No? Not even remotely? Well, surely you reside in that region spiritually.
Pauses, then with sudden delight.
Oh, and the complexion! Delightfully ambiguous! The kind that 19th century boarding schools would simply not know what to do with. Positively marvelous!
Stands back proudly.
I must say, it is a pleasure to finally meet a living embodiment of my skull chart from Volume VI of “Thrumblebottom’s Illustrated Atlas of the Racialized Cranium.”
Would you care for tea? Or perhaps a small argument about Galton?
A polite cough from the offended guest. Lord Thrumblebottom resumes measuring someone’s clavicle with salad tongs.
Books like this?
>>81802470
I have a nice comfy spot in my septic tank for any adult that comes sniffing around for my teen daughter.
I have a nice comfy spot in my septic tank for any adult that comes sniffing around for my teen daughter.
Is being attractive a categorical imperative?