What Time the Sexton's Spade Doth Rust (Flavia de Luce, #11)

by Alan Bradley

The greatest minds in the world are often cranky when they first awaken in the morning, and mine is no exception. If I am to ascend above the ordinary, I require solitude the way a balloon needs helium.

Even the mildest irritation, sheltered, guarded, and fed, can grow into an immense and sometimes sudden rage.

Sadness is much like smoke, I’ve decided: an odor raised at the very doorstep of the brain.

“Even Justice has its victims,” he said. “And they are sometimes more greatly wronged than even the victims of crime.”