More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Being diplomatic, I’d say Kipps was a slightly built young man in his early twenties, with close-cut reddish hair and a narrow, freckled face. Being undiplomatic (but more precise), I’d say he’s a pint-sized, pug-nosed, carrot-topped inadequate with a chip the size of Big Ben on his weedy shoulder. A sneer on legs. A malevolent buffoon.
Jokes made her irritable, as if she sensed something was going on around her that she couldn’t understand.
“I had to speak out,” George said. “Sorry. It was either that or punch him, and I’ve got sensitive hands.”
You know what psychics are like.” “Indeed,” Lockwood said drily. “Being one myself.”
“Personally,” I said, “I like to welcome them with a magnesium flare.” I had that knot in my stomach I always get before a case. The woman’s smile offended me.
As for Bickerstaff, just because he had an unfortunate end doesn’t mean he’ll necessarily be an aggressive spirit now.” “Maybe…” George muttered. “But if I was eaten by rats, I know I’d be fairly upset.”
This guy, entombed in iron, was like a banana midway between the second stage and the third.
His hands (bony, these)
Our ordinary response in such circumstances would be to either (a) ignore it (Lockwood); (b) ask them politely to ring back (George); or (c) send them away with a shrill torrent of abuse (me: I get grumpy when I’m tired).
“If you think we did it,” I said, “feel free to search the house. Start with George’s dirty laundry basket. That’s where we always hide the stuff we steal.”
“Pick a madman off the street,” George protested. “Go to a rest home and choose a random senior citizen. Anyone would be better than Kipps.”
“Our no-provocation rule is surprisingly flexible,” George remarked. “Can I give him a kick too?”
“Well, I make that one murder victim, one police interrogation, and one conversation with a ghost,” George said. “Now, that’s what I call a busy evening.” Lockwood nodded. “To think some people just watch television.”
Without (much) hesitation, I stepped inside.
“That’s assuming Kipps can actually read and write,” George said. Ned Shaw stirred. “Careful what you say, Cubbins.” “I’m sorry. Let me rephrase it. I’ll bet there are apes in the Borneo rain forests with a better grasp of literacy than him.”
“Oh,” Lockwood said. “It’s Flo.” George blinked. “Flo Bones? That’s a girl?” “We assume so. It’s never been conclusively proved.”
George considered the greasy marks remaining on the window. “You think she’ll want tea? She looked more a formaldehyde sort of girl.”
there’s one thing more stressful than being attacked by ravenous ghost-rats, it’s finding that you’re going to a fancy party and you haven’t got a thing to wear.
Burglary’s more fun than socializing, I always say.
“Yes, George here turns into a pumpkin if he’s out too late—as you can see, he’s well on the way already.”
I couldn’t part with the little necklace Lockwood had given me, though;
The ski masks were essential to protect our identities from the future attentions of a vengeful Winkman. They were hot, itchy, and hard to see out of, plus the wool covered our mouths and made it difficult to speak. Aside from that, it was a joy to wear them.
“if you judge success by the number of enemies you make, that was a highly successful evening.”
