I WAS waiting in the checkout line of the hangarlike Kohl’s store at Caesar’s Bay Bazaar in Brooklyn, my arms full of clothes, when a white-haired lady sidled up to me.

The male, as Dr. Gunther informs me, has a cluster of stiff, straight spines, like those of a comb, on the sides of the tail.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.

We give teething babies ABC books made of materials that can withstand repeated gummings.