Christy Brown Quotes

It is really a hard life. Men will not be nice to you if you are not good-looking, and women will not be nice to you if you are.

What good is money if it can't buy happiness?

You touched my flawed life so gently with love burning upward in dark steady flame burning me, burning me into healing.

I came to you tardy and late as I usually do to the better things in my life

A diary is useful for recording the idiosyncrasies of other people—but not one’s own.

I had the firm conviction that, if I went about looking for adventure, adventure would meet me halfway. It is a theory of mine that one always gets what one wants.

I dare say it is good for one now and again to realize what an idiot one can be! But no one relishes the process.

Men are so superior about their Latin," said Mrs. Blair. "But all the same I notice that when you ask them to translate inscriptions in old churches, they can never do it! They hem and haw, and get out of it somehow.

Time is counted, not by hours, but by heart-beats.

Suzanne likes thrills, but she hates being uncomfortable.

It was very like a dream. Like all dreamers, however, I could not let my dream alone. We poor humans are so anxious not to miss anything.

was too young to know if my heart misbehaved itself in any way,

That’s how they do it, these girls! Othello charmed Desdemona by telling her stories, but, oh, didn’t Desdemona charm Othello by the way she listened?

The Beddingfeld girl was deep in conversation with the missionary parson, Chichester. Women always flutter round parsons.

He had false teeth that clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated for less.

She was a very good, kind woman. I could not have continued to live in the same house with her, but I did recognize her intrinsic worth.

You know I want you. You know that I’d give my soul to pick you up in my arms and keep you here, hidden away from the world, forever and ever.

No, doctor, I'm going to London. If things happen anywhere, they happen in London.

My Great-aunt Jane always used to say that a true lady was neither shocked nor surprised at anything that might happen,” I murmured dreamily. “I endeavour to live up to her precepts.

Ah dearest heart if you will but wait I'll become the ideal soulmate nevermore causing you a moment's trouble and I but a mere ectoplasmic bubble swaying above your gorgeous head gruff and garrulous and safely dead.

Girl in the wind blowing wide open the closed doors of my life - which way are we going? Standing against the lurid sky on the stark brink of ocean arms outstretched as if your love and hunger would embrace the world and I in my inner room playing my poetic premutations can only look and ask the unanswerable. Brave and cunning I speak to my typewriter knowing it will not answer back knowing it will not reply what I ask and do not want to hear as you with the vast sunset merge a multitude of dreams away uniquely alone and outside of me in the purity and rarity of this moment immeasurably beyond my love and my rage and with the dying call of gulls the echo resounds: Girl in the wind throwing aside the tight shutters of my life - which way are we going?

A man who has shot lions in large quantities has an unfair advantage over other men.

But there are many fools in the world. One praises God for their existence and keeps out of their way.

I wonder if husbands know as much about their wives as they think they do. If I had a husband, I should hate him to bring home orphans without consulting me first.

He takes everything seriously. That is what makes him so difficult to live with.

dare say it is good for one now and again to realize what an idiot one can be! But nobody relishes the process.

He’s like all the rest of these people; they make inflammatory speeches of enormous length, solely for political purposes, and then wish they hadn’t.

I disliked Chichester. He had false teeth that clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated for less.

Because of his face.” “His face? But—” “Yes, I know what you’re going to say. It’s a sinister face. That’s just it. No man with a face like that could be really sinister. It must be a colossal joke on the part of Nature.

Several very suprising things have occurred. To begin with, I met Augustus Milray, the most perfect example of an old ass the present Government has produced. His manner oozed diplomatic secrecy as he drew me aside in the Club into a quiet corner.

We never seemed to have any money. His celebrity was not of the kind that brought in a cash return. Although he was a fellow of almost every important society and had rows of letters after his name, the general public scarcely knew of his existence, and his long-learned books, though adding signally to the sum total of human knowledge, had no attraction for the masses.

Caroline is the lady who cooks for me. Incidentally she is the wife of my gardener. What kind of a wife she makes I do not know, but she is an excellent cook. James, on the other hand, is not a good gardener—but I support him in idleness and give him the lodge to live in solely on account of Caroline’s cooking.

It was on the fourth day that the stewardess finally urged me up on deck. Under the impression that I should die quicker below, I had steadfastly refused to leave my bunk. She now tempted me with the advent of Madeira. Hope rose in my breast. I could leave the boat and go ashore and be a parlourmaid there. Anything for dry land.

Guy Pagett is my secretary, a zealous, painstaking, hardworking fellow, admirable in every respect. I know no one who annoys me more. For a long time I have been racking my brains as to how to get rid of him. But you cannot very well dismiss a secretary because he prefers work to play, likes getting up early in the morning, and has positively no vices. The only amusing thing about the fellow is his face. He has the face of a fourteenth-century poisoner—the sort of man the Borgias got to do their odd jobs for them.

I walked into Cartwright’s and ordered two coffee ice cream sodas—to steady my nerves. A man, I suppose, would have had a stiff peg; but girls derive a lot of comfort from ice cream sodas. I applied myself to the end of the straw with gusto. The cool liquid went trickling down my throat in the most agreeable manner. I pushed the first glass aside empty.

إن العشاق يتشاجرون دائماً لأنهم لا يفهمون بعضهم، وعندما يأتي الوقت الذي يفهمون فيه بعضهم فإنهم يفقدون حبهم

This isn’t an Agatha Christie.” “I don’t care if it’s a Dan Brown.

It is really a very hard life. Men will not be nice to you if you are not good-looking, and women will not be nice to you if you are.

Girls are foolish things.

Successful love may sometimes use the language of flattery, I admit. But hopeless love, dearest, always speaks the truth.

There was something strangely naked about it...and after a second I realized why. It wasn't just the lack of clutter and the minimalist décor...but the fact that there wasn't a single book in the whole place. It didn't even feel like a holiday cottage - every place I've ever stayed in has had a shelf of curling Dan Browns and Agatha Christies. It felt more like a show home.

I objected vigorously to this unsporting proposal. I recognized in it the disastrous effects of matrimony. How often have I not heard a perfectly intelligent female say, in the tone of one clinching an argument, “Edgar says—” And all the time you are perfectly aware that Edgar is a perfect fool. Suzanne, by reason of her married state, was yearning to lean upon some man or other.

Does nothing frighten you, Anne Beddingfeld?” “Oh, yes,” I said, with an assumption of coolness I was far from feeling. “Wasps, sarcastic women, very young men, cockroaches, and superior shop assistants.

Having adventures,” I replied. “Episode III of ‘The Perils of Pamela.’ ” I told her the whole story. She gave vent to a deep sigh when I finished. “Why do these things always happen to you?” she demanded plaintively. “Why does no one gag me and bind me hand and foot?” “You wouldn’t like it if they did,” I assured her. “To tell you the truth, I’m not nearly so keen on having adventures myself as I was. A little of that sort of thing goes a long way.

Dancing was a hot affair. I danced twice with Anne Beddingfeld and she had to pretend she liked it. I danced once with Mrs Blair, who didn't trouble to pretend, and I victimized various other damsels who appearance struck me favourably.

By the way, I should like to make it clear here and now that the story will not be a story of South Africa. I guarantee no genuine local colour -- you know the sort of thing -- half a dozen words in italic on every page. I admire it very much, but I can't do it.

Shall the dire day break when life finds us merely husband and wife with passion not so much denied as neatly laundered and put aside and the old joyous insistence trimmed to placid coexistence? Shall we sometime arise from bed with not a carnal thought in our head look at each other without surprise out of wide awake uncandid eyes touch and know no immediate urge where all mysteries converge? Speak for the sake of something to say and now and then put on a display of elaborate mimicry of the past to prove that ritual reigns where once ruled love and calmly observe those bleak rites that once made splendour of our nights? Dear, when we stop being outrageous and no longer find contagious the innumerable ecstasies we find in rise of hand or leap of mind - not now or then, love, need we fear thus; those two sad people will not be us.

I reflected a minute and then asked why he wanted to marry me. That seemed to fluster him a good deal, and he murmured that a wife was a great help to a general practitioner. The position seemed even more unromantic than before, and yet something in me urged towards its acceptance. Safety, that was what I was being offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home. Thinking it over now, I believe I did the little man an injustice. He was honestly in love with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented him from pressing his suit on those lines. Anyway, my love of romance rebelled.

I mean that we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry," answered Father Brown. "The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; they mean something somewhere else. Somewhere else retribution will come on the real offender. Here it often seems to fall on the wrong person.

Don’t hiss at me, Pagett,” I said, drawing back a little, “and do control your breathing. Your idea is absurd. Why should they want to have a secret meeting in the middle of the night? If they’d anything to say to each other, they could hobnob over beef tea in a perfectly casual and natural manner.

Nobody ever explains. Yes, “Secretaries I have had.” No. 1, a murderer fleeing from justice. No. 2, a secret drinker who carries on disreputable intrigues in Italy. No. 3, a beautiful girl who possesses the useful faculty of being in two places at once. No. 4, Miss Pettigrew, who, I have no doubt, is really a particularly dangerous crook in disguise!

Our party soon broke up; Mrs. Blair went below to sleep and I went out on deck. Colonel Race followed me. “You’re very elusive, Miss Beddingfeld. I looked for you everywhere last night at the dance.” “I went to bed early,” I explained. “Are you going to run away to-night too? Or are you going to dance with me?” “I shall be very pleased to dance with you,” I murmured shyly. “But Mrs. Blair——” “Our friend, Mrs. Blair, doesn’t care for dancing.” “And you do?” “I care for dancing with you.” “Oh!” I said nervously. I was a little afraid of Colonel Race. Nevertheless I was enjoying myself. This was better than discussing fossilized skulls with stuffy old professors! Colonel Race was really just my ideal of a stern silent Rhodesian. Possibly I might marry him!

He was tall and broad-shouldered, wore a dark overcoat and black boots, a bowler hat. He had a dark-pointed beard and gold-rimmed eyeglasses.” “Take away the overcoat, the beard and the eyeglasses, and there wouldn’t be much to know him by,” grumbled the inspector. “He could alter his appearance easily enough in five minutes if he wanted to—which he would do if he’s the swell pickpocket you suggest.” I had not intended to suggest anything of the kind. But from this moment I gave the inspector up as hopeless. “Nothing more you can tell us about him?” he demanded, as I rose to depart. “Yes,” I said. I seized my opportunity to fire a parting shot. “His head was markedly brachycephalic. He will not find it so easy to alter that.” I observed with pleasure that Inspector Meadows’s pen wavered. It was clear that he did not know how to spell brachycephalic.

Papa always said that in the beginning men and women roamed the world together, equal in strength - like lions and tigers -" "And giraffes?" interpolated Colonel Race slyly. I laughed. Everyone makes fun of that giraffe. "And giraffes. They were nomadic, you see. It wasn't till they settled down in communities, and women did one kind of thing and men another, that women got weak. And of course, underneath, one is still the same - one feels the same, I mean - and that is why women worship physical strength in men - it's what they once had and have lost." "Almost ancestor worship, in fact?" "Something of the kind." "And you really think that's true? That women worship strength, I mean?" "I think it's quite true - if one's honest. You think you admire moral qualities,but when you fall in love, you revert to the primitive where the physical is all that counts. But I don't think that's the end, if you lived in primitive conditions it would be all right, but you don't - and so, in the end, the other thing wins after all. It's the things that are apparently conquered that always do win, isn't it? They win in the only way that counts. Like what the Bible says about losing your life and finding it.”. “In the end," said Colonel Race thoughtfully, "you fall in love - and you fall out of it, is that what you mean?" "Not exactly, but you can put it that way if you like.

Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel INGREDIENTS 3 cups editors extraordinaire: Maya Ziv, Lara Hinchberger, Helen Smith 2 cups agent-I-couldn’t-do-this-without: Carolyn Forde (and the Transatlantic Literary Agency) 1½ cup highly skilled publishing teams: Dutton US, Penguin Random House Canada (Viking) 1 cup PR and marketing wizards: Kathleen Carter (Kathleen Carter Communications), Ruta Liormonas, Elina Vaysbeyn, Maria Whelan, Claire Zaya 1 cup women of writing coven: Marissa Stapley, Jennifer Robson, Kate Hilton, Chantel Guertin, Kerry Clare, Liz Renzetti ½ cup author-friends-who-keep-me-sane: Mary Kubica, Taylor Jenkins Reid, Amy E. Reichert, Colleen Oakley, Rachel Goodman, Hannah Mary McKinnon, Rosey Lim ½ cup friends-with-talents-I-do-not-have: Dr. Kendra Newell, Claire Tansey ¼ cup original creators of the Karma Brown Fan Club: my family and friends, including my late grandmother Miriam Christie, who inspired Miriam Claussen; my mom, who is a spectacular cook and mother; and my dad, for being the wonderful feminist he is 1 tablespoon of the inner circle: Adam and Addison, the loves of my life ½ tablespoon book bloggers, bookstagrammers, authors, and readers: including Andrea Katz, Jenny O’Regan, Pamela Klinger-Horn, Melissa Amster, Susan Peterson, Kristy Barrett, Lisa Steinke, Liz Fenton 1 teaspoon vintage cookbooks: particularly the Purity Cookbook, for the spark of inspiration 1 teaspoon loyal Labradoodle: Fred Licorice Brown, furry writing companion Dash of Google: so I could visit the 1950s without a time machine METHOD: Combine all ingredients into a Scrivener file, making sure to hit Save after each addition.

Not until fiddlesticks!” The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent.

I shouldn’t dream of marrying anyone unless I was madly in love with him. And of course there is really nothing a woman enjoys so much as doing all the things she doesn’t like for the sake of someone she does like. And the more self-willed she is, the more she likes it.’ ‘I’m afraid I disagree with you. The boot is on the other leg as a rule.’ He spoke with a slight sneer. ‘Exactly,’ I cried eagerly. ‘And that’s why there are so many unhappy marriages. It’s all the fault of the men. Either they give way to their women–and then the women despise them–or else they are utterly selfish, insist on their own way and never say “thank you”. Successful husbands make their wives do just what they want, and then make a frightful fuss of them for doing it. Women like to be mastered, but they hate not to have their sacrifices appreciated. On the other hand, men don’t really appreciate women who are nice to them all the time. When I am married, I shall be a devil most of the time, but every now and then, when my husband least expects it, I shall show him what a perfect angel I can be.’ Harry laughed outright. ‘What a cat-and-dog life you will lead!

Exactly; and as I am not an imbecile, it is not with the gallows I threaten you—but with publicity. Publicity! I see that you do not like the word. I had an idea that you would not. My little ideas, you know, they are very valuable to me. Come, signor, your only chance is to be frank with me. I do not ask to know whose indiscretions brought you to England. I know this much, you came for the especial purpose of seeing Count Foscatini.

It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?

What is it? You are not attending to what I say.” “It is true, my friend. I am much worried.” “Why?” “Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.

What an extraordinary coincidence.” “How—a coincidence?” “That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!

Others find excuses for not writing at the same time every day, balk at re-revising incessantly, or excuse themselves because their lives are beset by difficulties. I am deaf to that excuse because I worked with the most disadvantaged writer in history, Christy Brown, who had the use of his brain, the little toe on his left foot, and little else. When he was a seemingly helpless baby lying on the kitchen floor of a cottage in Ireland, his remarkable mother saw him reach out with his left foot and with his one good toe manage to pick up a crayon that one of his siblings had dropped. That was the beginning of a writer. Eventually someone at IBM made a special typewriter for Christy that enabled him to punch in a letter at a time with his one working toe. I published five of Christy Brown’s books, one of which made the national bestseller lists.

Cuántas veces no habré oído decir a una mujer inteligente a más no poder: "Edgardo dice...", como quien cita a una autoridad incontrovertible. Y eso cuando todo el mundo sabe que Edgardo es un perfecto idiota.

He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.

Of course I don’t want to! What’s the good of being sentimental? Father’s a dear—I’m awfully fond of him—but you’ve no idea how I worry him! He has that delightful early Victorian view that short skirts and smoking are immoral. You can imagine what a thorn in the flesh I am to him! He just heaved a sigh of relief when the war took me off. You see, there are seven of us at home. It’s awful! All housework and mothers’ meetings! I have always been the changeling. I don’t want to go back, but—oh, Tommy, what else is there to do?

The Miss Marple Reading List We recommend reading the Miss Marple novels and short stories in the following order: ❑ The Murder at the Vicarage [1930] ❑ The Thirteen Problems (Short Story Collection) [1932] ❑ Miss Marple’s Final Cases (Short Story Collection) [1979] ❑ The Body in the Library [1942] ❑ The Moving Finger [1942] ❑ Sleeping Murder [1976] ❑ A Murder Is Announced [1950] ❑ They Do It with Mirrors [1952] ❑ A Pocket Full of Rye [1953] ❑ “Greenshaw’s Folly” [1956] ❑ 4.50 from Paddington [1957] ❑ The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side [1962] ❑ A Caribbean Mystery [1964] ❑ At Bertram’s Hotel [1965] ❑ Nemesis [1971]

The Hercule Poirot Reading List It is possible to read the Poirot stories in any order. If you want to consider them chronologically (in terms of Poirot’s lifetime), we recommend the following: ❑ The Mysterious Affair at Styles [1920] ❑ The Murder on the Links [1923] ❑ The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories (US Short Story Collection) [1939] ❑ Poirot Investigates (Short Story Collection) [1924] ❑ Poirot’s Early Cases (Short Story Collection) [1974] ❑ The Murder of Roger Ackroyd [1926] ❑ The Big Four [1927] ❑ The Mystery of the Blue Train [1928] ❑ Peril at End House [1932] ❑ Lord Edgware Dies [1933] ❑ Murder on the Orient Express [1934] ❑ Three Act Tragedy [1935] ❑ Death in the Clouds [1935] ❑ Poirot and the Regatta Mystery (Published in The Complete Short Stories: Hercule Poirot) [1936] ❑ The ABC Murders [1936] ❑ Murder in Mesopotamia [1936] ❑ Cards on the Table [1936] ❑ The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories (US Short Story Collection) [1948] ❑ Murder in the Mews (Short Story Collection) [1938] ❑ Dumb Witness [1937] ❑ Death on the Nile [1937] ❑ Appointment with Death [1937] ❑ Hercule Poirot’s Christmas [1938] ❑ Sad Cypress [1940] ❑ One, Two Buckle My Shoe [1940] ❑ Evil Under the Sun [1941] ❑ Five Little Pigs [1942] ❑ The Hollow [1946] ❑ The Labours of Hercules (Short Story Collection) [1947] ❑ Taken at the Flood [1945] ❑ Mrs. McGinty’s Dead [1952] ❑ After the Funeral [1953] ❑ Hickory Dickory Dock [1955] ❑ Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly [2014] ❑ Dead Man’s Folly [1956] ❑ Cat Among the Pigeons [1959] ❑ Double Sin and Other Stories (US Short Story Collection) [1961] ❑ The Under Dog and Other Stories (US Short Story Collection) [1951] ❑ The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories (US Short Story Collection) [1997] ❑ The Clocks [1963] ❑ Third Girl [1966] ❑ Hallowe’en Party [1969] ❑ Elephants Can Remember [1972] ❑ Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case [1975]

Great mistake to say too much. Remember that. Never tell all you know — not even to the person you know best.

And the good heart, it is in the end worth all the little grey cells. Yes, yes. I who speak to you am in danger of forgetting that sometimes.

money

all women, without in the least meaning it, consider every man they meet as a possible husband for themselves or their best friend.

I was still silent. I believed that my silence was achieving more than any arguments or agreements could do. Laurence Brown was arguing with himself, and in so doing was revealing a good deal of himself.

Pagett is a famous Job’s comforter. He displays a certain gloomy satisfaction that maddens me. Also, he has taken advantage of my perturbation to saddle me with the stationery trunk. Unless he is careful, the next funeral he attends will be his own.

A completely different type, of course, from Marina Gregg. The amenities over, Lola pushed back her Fiji Islander hair, drew her generous lipsticked mouth into a provocative pout, and flickering blue eyelids over wide brown eyes

Mr. Ellsworthy was a very exquisite young man dressed in a colour scheme of russet brown. He had a long pale face with a womanish mouth, long black artistic hair and a mincing walk.

She was represented in a pink satin dress and was holding a bunch of lilies of the valley. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and her lips were pressed grimly together. Her eyes, of a cold grey, looked out ill-temperedly at the beholder.

A soft sound behind him made him turn sharply. A girl was standing there, a remarkably pretty girl with brown hair curling round her ears and rather timid-looking dark-blue eyes. She flushed a little with embarrassment before she spoke.

Do you remember after the last war—when we were hunting down Mr. Brown? Do you remember what fun it was? How excited we were?” Tommy agreed, his face lighting up. “Rather!” “Tommy—why isn’t it the same now?” He considered the question, his quiet ugly face grave. Then he said: “I suppose it’s really—a question of age.” Tuppence said sharply: “You don’t think—we’re too old?

If one wanted to sum up Mr. Jesmond in a word, the word would have been discretion. Everything about Mr. Jesmond was discreet. His well-cut but inconspicuous clothes, his pleasant, well-bred voice which rarely soared out of an agreeable monotone, his light-brown hair just thinning a little at the temples, his pale serious face. It seemed to Hercule Poirot that he had known not one Mr. Jesmond but a dozen Mr. Jesmonds in his time, all using sooner or later the same phrase—“a position of the utmost delicacy.

Writing may be immortal, but it does not bridge the gap between two human beings as the voice may, and oh, I would rather have an hour's fierce argument with a pal or a few moments of soft chatter with a girl than write the greatest book on earth

Megan was a tall awkward girl, and although she was actually twenty, she looked more like a schoolgirlish sixteen. She had a shock of untidy brown hair, hazel green eyes, a thin bony face, and an unexpected charming one-sided smile. Her clothes were drab and unattractive and she usually had on lisle thread stockings with holes in them.

To be my wisdom, as Air, my steadiness, as Earth …” He took a deep breath. “And my passion and my heart, as Fire and Water. And if you would have it so, I would be these things to you.” He felt her trembling in his embrace: she, Aggra, strong and courageous. She pulled back a little and laid her hand on his chest, her eyes searching his. “Go’el, as long as you have this great heart to lead—and to love—then know that I will go with you to the ends of any world and beyond.” He placed a hand on her cheek, green skin against brown, then leaned forward slowly to rest his forehead gently against hers.

I know those kinds of lenses, said Tuppence. By the time you've adjusted the shutter and stopped down and calculated the exposure and kept your eye on the spirit level, your brain gives out and you yearn for the simple browning.

My father, Professor Beddingfeld, was one of England’s greatest living authorities on Primitive Man. He really was a genius—everyone admits that. His mind dwelt in Palaeolithic times, and the inconvenience of life for him was that his body inhabited the modern world. Papa did not care for modern man—even Neolithic Man he despised as a mere herder of cattle, and he did not rise to enthusiasm until he reached the Mousterian period.

The November Road Playlist “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”—Bob Dylan “’Round Midnight”—Billy Taylor Trio “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”—The Shirelles “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” from The Wizard of Oz—Judy Garland “How Can You Lose”—Art Pepper “Night and Day”—Ella Fitzgerald “I Saw Her Standing There”—The Beatles “Jack O’Diamonds”—Ruth Brown “Ring of Fire”—Johnny Cash “Somebody Have Mercy”—Sam Cooke “Something Cool”—June Christy “Prisoner of Love”—James Brown “It’s My Party”—Lesley Gore “Blowin’ in the Wind”—Peter, Paul and Mary “I’m Walkin’”—Fats Domino “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me”—Frank Sinatra “’Round Midnight”—Thelonious Monk

You are seeing the world. This is the world. You are seeing it. Think of it, Anne Beddingfeld, you pudding-head.

There glimmering white and snowy, enveloped in a delicate rose-coloured mist, rose the glistening pinnacle.

And I disliked Chichester. He had false teeth which clicked when he ate. Many men have been hated for less.

He looks mild as milk. But looks are deceptive.

As usual, my friend, you speak without reflection. How do you know that the pearls Mrs. Opalsen locked up so carefully to-night were not the false ones, and that the real robbery did not take place at a much earlier date?

It reminded me forcibly of Episode III in “The Perils of Pamela.” How often had I not sat in the sixpenny seats, eating a twopenny bar of milk chocolate, and yearning for similar things to happen to me. Well, they had happened with a vengeance. And somehow it was not nearly so amusing as I had imagined. It’s all very well on the screen—you have the comfortable knowledge that there’s bound to be an Episode IV. But in real life there was absolutely no guarantee that Anna the Adventuress might not terminate abruptly at the end of any Episode.

do not waste time taking photographs of interiors they are underexposed and not in the least artistic.

Clothes, shoes, and material things will not replace your dignity, for if you lose your dignity you lose yourself.

But his face should really inspire you with confidence, my dear lady. No self-respecting murderer would ever consent to look like one. Crippen now, I believe was one of the pleasantest fellows imaginable.

With a deep sigh I proceeded to do things with my hair. I have nice hair. It is black—a real black, not dark brown—

And I don’t suppose she will ever explain. Nobody does—to me. I always have to guess. It becomes monotonous after a while.

I never can remember birthdays, for some reason.

He takes parties up and down the river in the season and points out crocodiles and a stray hippopotamus or so to them. I believe that he keeps a tame one which is trained to bite pieces out of the boat on occasions. Then he fends it off with a boathook, and the party feel they have really got to the back of beyond at last.

That woman's over-driven," said Father Brown; "that's the kind of woman that does her duty for twenty years, and then does something dreadful.