A Red Herring Without Mustard (Flavia de Luce #3)

by Alan Bradley

Whenever I’m with other people, part of me shrinks a little. Only when I am alone can I fully enjoy my own company.

The very best people are like that. They don’t entangle you like flypaper.

The grief in the room belonged to Porcelain, and I realised, almost at once, that it would be selfish to rob her of it in any way.

It always surprises me after a family row to find that the world outdoors has remained the same. While the passions and feelings that accumulate like noxious gases inside a house seem to condense and cling to the walls and ceilings like old smoke, the out-of-doors is different. The landscape seems incapable of accumulating human radiation. Perhaps the wind blows anger away. I thought about this as I trudged towards the Trafalgar Lawn.

Thinking and prayer are much the same thing anyway, when you stop to think about it—if that makes any sense. Prayer goes up and thought comes down—or so it seems. As far as I can tell, that’s the only difference.