By R. L. Stine
"Reader beware—you decide on the scare! provide your self GOOSEBUMPS! whereas you're on holiday you get an opportunity to take a look at an show of Egyptian artifacts and cool mummy. but if you get to the place the mother is meant to be all you discover is a pile of bandages and a truly outdated diary choked with entries that appear to were written by way of Mr. Mummy himself! in the event you contact the bandages they'll wrap themselves round you and poof — you're a mummy. in case you choose to use the clues within the diary to discover the wrapped ask yourself you'll end up looking through the pyramids in Egypt. Will you be caught there — eternally? the alternative is yours during this frightening GOOSEBUMPS experience that's full of over 20 super-spooky endings!"
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Extra resources for Diary of a Mad Mummy (Give Yourself Goosebumps, Book 10)
As a key member of a group of late nineteenth-century intellectuals, nicknamed ‘the Souls’*, Violet talked about art and berated the philistinism of the Victorian age. She was also much admired for her own amateur gifts, with several of her busts and her silver-point and pencil portraits exhibited in London galleries. A reputation for being different, even mildly rebellious, had attached itself to her. While Violet deferred to the formal duties of a Duke’s wife, she clearly preferred intimate suppers to grand dinners and court events.
1 Yet over the following days she would be feted by artists and critics as a black pearl, an ebony Venus, a jazz age vamp with the soul of an African goddess. Postcards of ‘La Baker’ went on sale, as did a range of Josephine dolls. Her shiny black hair and coffee-coloured skin, the source of so much abuse back home, were harnessed to the marketing of French beauty products: hair pomade for the glossing of Eton crops; walnut oil for the faking of summer tans. Her hard, supple body was celebrated as an icon of contemporary style – reflecting the glossy streamlined aesthetic of art deco and the gamine flair of the French garçonne.
They were written about by the same novelists and journalists, photographed for the same publications. But biography is essentially about the colour and detail of individual lives and in writing this book I’ve been fortunate to profit from the groundwork of many other fine biographers. To their research and knowledge I owe a profound debt. In the matter of language, the 1920s was a world away from our own politically conscious era. Young women were girls, blacks were often niggers, female actors were actresses, and even though this usage can grate on modern ears, I’ve opted to retain a flavour of it, for the sake of period accuracy.