Say, Human. Warious.
A fragment from Our Mutual Friend, in which Mr. Venus, Dickens' grim shopkeeper-emanation of the the grim Victorian unconscious, describes the wares he has on offer:
Tools. Bones, warious. Skulls, warious. Preserved Indian baby. African ditto. Bottled preparations, warious. Everything within reach of your hand, in good preservations. The mouldy ones a-top. What's in these hampers over them again, I don't quite remember. Say, human, warious. Cats. Articulated English baby. Dogs. Ducks. Glass eyes, warious. Mummified bird. Dried cuticle, warious.
His beloved refuses him, in her own handwriting: "I do not wish to regard myself, nor yet to be regarded, in that boney light."
Labels: commonplace book