Clouds of Witness (Lord Peter Wimsey, #2)

by Dorothy L. Sayers

Mrs. Marchbanks was not angry, but she was embarrassed in the presence of the Duchess, because she could not feel sorry for her. When you felt sorry for people you called them “poor old dear” or “poor dear old man.” Since, obviously, you could not call the Duchess poor old dear, you were not being properly sorry for her.

Nothing to add. Just like the way Sayers puts this.

She was not to blame for the unfortunate result.

A familiar sentiment. Of course the shooting wasn't her fault. She dwells on that to deflect attention from her behavior, which is objectionable and obviously IS her fault.

As an older man of some experience in these matters (Mr. Pettigrew-Robinson was a county magistrate) he had gone out of his way to place himself at the man’s disposal.

In fact, Sayers very neatly characterizes the whole party here. Each gets a few lines that very economically tell us everything we need to know about them.

Mr. Parker reminded himself of a dictum of Lord Melbourne.

Perhaps Sayers's most notable characteristic is the way she assumes that everyone has had the same education she's had. She drops in little references like this, or has characters say whole paragraphs in a foreign language, without ever explaining herself. I'm sure those in the know find it rewarding.

The departure of the church-going element had induced a more humanitarian atmosphere.

I have no further comment.

He knew for certain what a camisole was, and he had grasped for the first time in his life that crêpe-de-Chine had no recognisable relation to crape, and was astonishingly expensive for its bulk.

:)

It’s so much better to do things neatly and thoroughly—even stupid things.

Words to live by.

“But I thought you Soviet Club people enjoyed being suspected of things,” said Lord Peter. “Why, it ought to be the proudest moment of your life when you’re really looked on as a dangerous fellow.”

One of the few things I dislike about Sayers is how she always paints leftists (or any unorthodox people who aren't her sort of orthodox people) in such lousy colors. And this observation from Wimsey is particularly unfair.

He wrote an elaborate diary, containing, day by day, the record of this visionary existence which he had never dared put to the test of actuality. The diary described minutely a blissful wedded life with the woman of his dreams. Every Christmas and Easter Day a bottle of the ’47 was solemnly set upon his table and solemnly removed, unopened, at the close of his frugal meal.

This makes me very sad, though to each his own, I suppose.