Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details... and they call the result intuition.
Cold? I should be colder if I were dead!
Fey?” Mrs. Allerton put her head on one side as she considered her reply. “Well, it’s a Scottish word, really. It means the kind of exalted happiness that comes before disaster. You know – it’s too good to be true.
But you didn’t like him?” “Shall we put it that I don’t care very much for Americans, sir.” “Have you ever been in America?” “No, sir.
My brains desert me.
The accepted version of certain facts is not necessarily the true one.
A good conscience makes a sound sleeper.
Girls are foolish things.
It is love that has come – not as you imagined it, all cock-a-hoop with fine feathers, but sadly, with bleeding feet.
The day of the Old Men is over,” said Tommy, waving his hand. “Who caused the war? The Old Men. Who is responsible for the present state of unemployment? The Old Men. Who is responsible for every single rotten thing that has happened? Again I say, the Old Men!
After you’ve fallen in love with a man and married him and got used to his ways and settled down comfortably – to go and throw it all up and start again! It seems to me madness.
In spite of its new gleaming paint, its alterations, it was in essence a tired old Victorian mansion. “I was wise to go,” thought Mrs. Bantry. “Houses are like everything else. There comes a time when they’ve just had their day. This has had its day.
Now, I dare say you modern young people will laugh, but when I am in really bad trouble I always say a little prayer to myself – anywhere, when I am walking along the street, or at a bazaar. And I always get an answer. It may be some trifling thing, apparently quite unconnected with the subject, but there it is. I had that text pinned over my bed when I was a little girl: Ask and you shall receive.
The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small –.
It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage.
The mirror crack’d from side to side: ‘The doom has come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott.
Out flew the web and floated wide; The Mirror crack’d from side to side; ‘The curse has come upon me,’ cried The Lady of Shalott.
Queer, thought Henrietta, how things can seep into you without your knowing it...
What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn’t somebody murder her!” “It may yet happen,” Poirot consoled him.
When everybody about you is in a continual state of agitation, it develops in you a desire to go to the opposite extreme.