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

by Alan Bradley

“You lie like one of us,” she said.

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.

But wasn’t Father going to remark upon my cuts and abrasions? Apparently not. And it was at that moment, I think, it began to dawn upon me—truly dawn upon me—that there were things that were never mentioned in polite company no matter what; that blue blood was heavier than red; that manners and appearances and the stiff upper lip were all of them more important, even, than life itself.

My acute hearing detected the sound of a coarse snicker in the hallway. But I’d like to believe that what I saw in Father’s eyes was pride.