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What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one’s house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean.
She was a good-looking young woman of perhaps nearer thirty than twenty, her looks depending more on skilful grooming than actual features. She looked competent and good-tempered, with plenty of common sense. She was not the type that would ever be described as glamorous, but she had nevertheless plenty of attraction. She was discreetly made-up and wore a dark tailor-made suit. Though she looked anxious and upset she was not, the Colonel decided, particularly grief-stricken.
Adelaide Jefferson had the power of creating a restful atmosphere. She was a woman who never seemed to say anything remarkable but who succeeded in stimulating other people to talk and setting them at their ease.
Do you like detective stories? I do. I read them all, and I’ve got autographs from Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie and Dickson Carr and H. C. Bailey.
Here was a man who would never rail against fate but accept it and pass on to victory.
Cherchez l’homme.” “What? Oh, very good, sir.”
“Gentlemen,” she said with her old-maid’s way of referring to the opposite sex as though it were a species of wild animal, “are frequently not as levelheaded as they seem.”
“An alibi is the fishiest thing on God’s earth! No innocent person ever has an alibi!
It’s not what I say to my patients, Superintendent, but a man may as well wear out as rust out.
Women accept a son-in-law as one of the family easily enough, but there aren’t many times when a woman looks on her son’s wife as a daughter.”
It has been said, you know (and, I think, quite truly), that you can only really get under anybody’s skin if you are married to them.
