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Of late he has become a little more ready to show his feelings, and a little less terrified of having any to show.
And begin right at the beginning, if you will, please. I have a very trivial mind. Detail delights me. Ramifications enchant me. Distance no object. No reasonable offer refused.
“Shut up, Sherlock,” said his friend, “the doctor’s story is not going to be obvious. Far from it, as the private said when he aimed at the bull’s-eye and hit the gunnery instructor.
It’s a silly kind of face, of course, but rather disarming, don’t you think? I don’t know that I’d have chosen it, but I do my best with it. I do hope it isn’t contracting a sleuth-like expression, or anything unpleasant.
“And now we’ll just make a noise like a hoop and roll away.
Even the closest of one’s friends turn out to be secret thinkers. They think in private thoughts which they publicly repudiate.”
“Oh, please,” cried Lord Peter, “please don’t be ruffled. Such a nice word, ruffled—like a kitten, I always think—so furry and nice.
that woman Forbes was no more use than a headache—to use my brother’s rather vigorous expression.
Besides, you never know when finger-prints mayn’t come in handy. They’re excellent things to have about the house.
This Miss Clara was evidently rather a ‘character,’ as my dear father used to call it. In her day she was considered very ‘advanced’ and not quite nice(!) because she refused several good offers, cut her hair SHORT(!!) and set up in business for herself as a HORSE-BREEDER!!! Of course, nowadays, nobody would think anything of it, but then the old lady—or young lady as she was when she embarked on this revolutionary proceeding, was quite a PIONEER.
He unfolded the letter, which was written in Miss Climpson’s old-fashioned flowing hand, and ornamented with such a variety of underlinings and exclamation marks as to look like an exercise in musical notation.
Often she used to say to me, ‘Betty,’ she said, ‘I mean to be an old maid and so does Miss Clara, and we’re going to live together and be ever so happy, without any stupid, tiresome gentlemen.’
Lesbians!
“Well, I mean to be an old maid, anyhow,” retorted Miss Findlater. “Mary and I have quite decided that. We’re interested in things, not in men.”
Lesbians!
‘O Inspiration, solitary child, warbling thy native wood-notes wild—’ Did somebody write that, or did I invent it? It sounds reminiscent, somehow.”
The streamlet clacked merrily away over the pebbles, running out to the southwest on its way to the river and the sea. “It’s all very well your chattering,” said Wimsey to the water. “Why can’t you say what you’ve seen?”
Whenever she thought of the word, it wrote itself upon her brain in large capitals, heavily underlined. MURDER—like a police-bill.
The next day—which was the Friday—she woke, however, with an unpleasant ache in the conscience.
