Gail Carriger
Gail Carriger
Gail Carriger is the pen name of Tofa Borregaard, an archaeologist and author of steampunk fiction. She was born in Bolinas, an unincorporated community in Marin County, California, and attended high school at Marin Academy. She received her undergraduate degree from Oberlin College, a masters of science in archaeological materials at England's Nottingham University in 2000, and a master of arts in anthropologyat the University of California Santa Cruz in 2008...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth4 May 1976
CountryUnited States of America
I have died and gone to the land of bad novels.
His eyes are peculiar. There is nothing in them, like an eclair without the cream filling. It's wrong, lack of cream.
Lyall understood a broken heart, but it could not be allowed to rumple perfectly good shirtwaists.
Stop playing verbal games with me, madam, or I shall go out into that ballroom, find your mother, and bring her here
Steampunk is...the love child of Hot Topic and a BBC costume drama
Classic author moment, "Oh dear, did I kill that character or not?
Why Alexia that is quite beautiful. It does ot reflect your customary taste at all approved Miss Hisselpenny with glee. Trust Ivy to like the hideous thing for it's looks.
Oh, Herbert," she said pleadingly to her silent husband, "you must make him marry her! Call for the parson immediately! Look at them... they are...," she sputtered, "canoodling!
Even Alexia, spinster that she was, was given an allowance large enough to dress her to the height of fashion— although she did tend to stick to trends a little too precisely. The poor thing could not help it. Her choice of clothing simply lacked soul.
Isn't Bunson's training evil geniuses?" "Yes, mostly." "Well, is that wise? Having a mess of seedling evil geniuses falling in love with you willy-nilly? What if they feel spurned?" "Ah, but in the interim, think of the lovely gifts they can make you. Monique bragged that one of her boys made her silver and wood hair sticks as anti-supernatural weapons. With amethyst inlay. And another made her an exploding wicker chicken." "Goodness, what's that for?" Dimity pursed her lips. "Who doesn't want an exploding wicker chicken?
What’s that?” she asked the girl, wrinkling her nose. “Oh, that? That’s just Pillover.” “And what’s a pillover, when it’s at home?” “My little brother.” “Ah, I commiserate. I have several of my own. Dashed inconvenient, brothers.
It'll all end in tears and oil.
He...boasted an unassuming mustache, which was perched atop his upper lip cautiously, as though it were slightly embarrassed to be there and would like to slide away and become a sideburn or something more fashionable.
I believe there is a considerable range in the bang of most guns.