Sleeping Murder (Miss Marple, #13)

by Agatha Christie

It was the sort of dream a child might have, and be terribly frightened, and go on remembering about.

Helen was sorry for him or fell in love with him. He was lonely, or fell in love with her. Difficult to know just the way things happen.

Pull your socks up, darling. There

Memory was an inconvenient thing.

She said she had destroyed them—but women never do destroy letters, do they?

She paused and said softly, “Poor Helen … Poor lovely Helen, who died young … You know, Giles, she isn’t there anymore—in the house—in the hall. I could feel that yesterday before we left. There’s just the house. And the house is fond of us. We can go back if we like….”