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Alternate title: Or How to Grow Potatoes on Mars

“His wife is the widow of a French count.”
“Please don’t tell me he lost his head as well?”
“I’m afraid so. He was guillotined in 1794. I gather she’s been ill for quite some time and may even be dying; Austen has his sister up from Hampshire to stay with them and help.”
“What do you know about her?”
“The sister? I gather she’s quite unremarkable. A spinster by the name of Jane. Miss Jane Austen.”

All this violence and drama out of an american tv series can only be historical. I'm not googling it. I'm not googling it....

He also looked up, and for a moment she thought he was looking at her. She felt the heat of a flush in her cheeks, and began to lift her hand in response. Then she realized he was looking at the other window.
And at the other window, Donna Isabella pressed her open palm against the glass.

‘Imagine if mobiles had been invented earlier,’ says Ruiz. ‘Custer could have called up the cavalry.’
‘And Paul Revere would have saved himself a long ride.’
‘Nelson could have sent a text from Trafalgar.’
‘Saying what?’
‘I won’t be home for dinner.’

You know, we have a proverb here in Morocco: “A Bedouin took his revenge after forty years. It was said he was in a hurry.”

This could be the best book ever written and I missed it sleeping and sleeping and sleeping on it. Wonder if I keep turning pages while sleeping. So there were bees and unicorns... and a house...

"... which was built in 1961 by Raymond Erith, whose response to modernism was to pretend it never happened."

...we decided it was worth running a quick outreach operation to find any witnesses amongst people who visit the area by night.’
‘Such as?’ asked Windrow.
‘Doggers,’ said Dominic. ‘Birdwatchers.’
‘Amateur astronomers,’ I said.
‘Fox watchers,’ said Dominic.
‘Druids,’ I said.
‘UFO spotters.’
‘Satanists,’ I said.