The Westing Game

by Ellen Raskin

She said that she wrote for the child in herself, but for once I think she was wrong. I think she wrote for the adult in children.

“My brother is not an infant, and he’s not retarded, so please, no more baby talk.”

“Why hello, Judge Ford.” Proud of her liberalism, Grace Windsor Wexler stood and leaned over the table to shake the black woman’s hand. She must be here in some legal capacity, or maybe her mother was a household maid, but of one thing Grace was certain: J. J. Ford could no more be related to Samuel W. Westing than Mr. Hoo.

I remember the will said May God thy gold refine. That must be from the Bible.” “Shakespeare,” Turtle replied. All quotations were either from the Bible or Shakespeare.

“You should not speak unkindly of those less fortunate than you,” Hoo said.

Attila the Hun and Gracie the useless.

Racist ahhhhhhhh TT

“I’m fine.” She was not fine. Why did they ask about Denton all the time, as though she was nobody without him?

She was going to get married, her one claim to fame.

Ghost-threatened, she waited for the unseen.