Crocodile on the Sandbank (Amelia Peabody, #1)

by Elizabeth Peters

I had a new interest—but to call it an interest is to understate my sentiments. I admired, I desired—I lusted after pyramids!

Emerson’s jaw dropped. “Good God,” he said. “A woman with an inquiring mind? Is it possible?”

If curses have any effect, I am due to perish miserably.

I believe you would square off at Satan if he came around and inconvenienced you!”

Nevertheless, his grin annoyed me.

Men are frail creatures, of course; one does not expect them to exhibit the steadfastness of women.

Really, the Mummy was becoming ridiculous! Its repertoire was so limited; why didn’t it do something different, instead of creeping around waving its arms?

I hope I number patience among my virtues, but shilly-shallying, when nothing is to be gained by delay, is not a virtue.