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From the regency romance I'm reading ("Almost a Gentleman" by Pam Rosenthal):
eg "It's like black and white photos in my head. Except cameras haven't been invented yet."
And engravings don't naturally have colour anyway.
I feel a sense of unjustified pride that thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hlbr's brilliant beta-ing my own regency dialogue doesn't have so many anachronistic contractions. (Or American spelling for that matter)
It's as though someone had made pictures of those moments&mdash not paintings, more like horribly precise engravings, drained of color, etched by a flash of light&mdash and affixed them eternally in my thoughts. Thank heaven there's no machine that can create such pictures&mdash only my accursed guilty memory.
eg "It's like black and white photos in my head. Except cameras haven't been invented yet."
And engravings don't naturally have colour anyway.
I feel a sense of unjustified pride that thanks to
hlbr's brilliant beta-ing my own regency dialogue doesn't have so many anachronistic contractions. (Or American spelling for that matter)
