A Rule Against Murder (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache, #4)

by Louise Penny

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,

He’d come to the Manoir Bellechasse to turn that off, to relax and not look for the stain on the carpet, the knife in the bush, or the back. To stop noticing the malevolent inflections that rode into polite conversation on the backs of reasonable words. And the feelings flattened and folded and turned into something else, like emotional origami. Made to look pretty, but disguising something not at all attractive.

‘The mind is its own place, and in it self Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.

Grief was dagger shaped and sharp and pointed inwards. It was made of fresh loss and old sorrow. Rendered and forged and sometimes polished. Irene

Peter wondered at this man who’d lived every nightmare and was happy while Peter had every privilege and wasn’t.