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

by Alan Bradley

What we call fire is really no more than our old friend oxidation working at fever pitch.

there’s no better way to mask a lie—or at least a glaring omission—than to wrap it in an emotional outpouring of truth.

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

“Red herring, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, was considered an inferior dish,”

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.

There’s nothing that a liar hates more than finding that another liar has lied to them.

“We always want to love the recipients of our charity,” the doctor said, negotiating a sharp bend in the road with a surprising demonstration of steering skill, “but it is not necessary. Indeed, it is sometimes not possible.”