I was thinking about the curate in The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells for some reason when posting this image of a White Peacock butterfly. Not that the two share any resemblances. The butterfly is most likely far more in control of itself than the curate was.
“Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food I withheld from him, praying, begging, weeping, at last threatening. He began to raise his voice—I prayed him not to. He perceived a hold on me—he threatened he would shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time that scared me; but any concession would have shortened our chance of escape beyond estimating. I defied him, although I felt no assurance that he might not do this thing. But that day, at any rate, he did not. He talked with his voice rising slowly, through the greater part of the eighth and ninth days—threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane and always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God’s service, such as made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and began again with renewed strength, so loudly that I must needs make him desist.”
—from Book 2, Chapter 4, The Death of the Curate, The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells.
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