More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Men would never learn to behave if you apologised at them.
“You’re near as bad as that journalist we have on board, miss,”
“Christ,” he said. “Halfway across the bloody ocean and I still can’t escape his persistent fucking prying.
“And what,” said Hawthorn, “would you have tried next, if you’d lost?” “Goodness knows.” Miss Blyth had pleased colour in her cheeks. “I might have tackled you around the knees, I suppose.” Hawthorn gave one of his whip-crack laughs. “You really are Blyth’s sister, aren’t you? He was barely holding himself back from popping me one the entire ten minutes of our acquaintance.
The worldly and scandalous Miss Debenham had brushed her girlhood from her skirts like crumbs, with no regrets.
Girls grew up and were married; friends grew up and grew distant. Maud had never expected that it would be herself and Liza Sinclair, each being the other’s favourite person, forever. Except that a dumb animal part of her clearly had.
Alan Ross the advertising-copy man looked younger when he was unconscious. The sharpness and the smile were both smoothed from his face, and his curls were rough where the cap had come askew when he fell. He looked like a painting by … oh, one of those artists who were obsessed with light and shadow.
He shook out his right hand as if it had spasmed. Maud wondered what it meant to him, to have abandoned magic years ago and now to be pulled back into performing the empty motions of it, like a chorister reduced to mouthing along with the soaring notes of the chorus.
“Don’t talk twaddle—she’s possessed, not dead. Unlike some of us.”
A pause, in which the table warily weighed the question of whether Lord Hawthorn was familiar with the concept of humour.
There was nothing in that to specify exactly what kind of argument was had, or how few items of clothing were being worn during said argument.
