...of inaccuracy

In any event, none of the few other books I have noticed over there interests me remarkably either.
Although I am perhaps forgetting the one-volume selection from among the Greek plays, which is an edition I had never seen before.
Conversely, I have no more intention of ever opening something called The Origin of Table Manners than I do of reading the book about grass.
One other is actually called The Eiffel Tower, of all nonsense subjects.
There is naturally nothing in any of the plays about anyone menstruating, incidentally.
Although when one comes right down to it, one can often make an educated guess about that sort of thing despite the silence.
One has a fairly acute inkling as to when Cassandra may be having her period, for instance.
Cassandra is feeling out of sorts again, one can even imagine Troilus or certain of the other Trojans now and again saying.
Then again, Helen could be having hers even when she still possesses that radiant dignity, being Helen.
My own generally makes my face turn puffy.
One is next to positive that Sappho would have never beaten around the bush about any of this, on the other hand.
Which could well explain why certain of her poems were used as the stuffing for mummies, even before the friars got their hands on those that were left.

[Wittgenstein's Mistress, Markson, D.]