Important Inspector Quotes

The man had a smooth voice, like velvet. “I’m Detective Inspector Me. Unusual name, I know. My family were incredibly narcissistic. I’m lucky I escaped with any degree of humility at all, to be honest, but then I’ve always managed to exceed expectations. You are Kenny Dunne, are you not?” “I am.” “Just a few questions for you, Mr Dunne. Or Kenny. Can I call you Kenny? I feel we’ve become friends these past few seconds. Can I call you Kenny?” “Sure,” Kenny said, slightly baffled. “Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s important you feel comfortable around me, Kenny. It’s important we build up a level of trust. That way I’ll catch you completely unprepared when I suddenly accuse you of murder.

Where other women ... were lovely, Annie Gamache was alive. Late, too late, Jean Guy Beauvoir had come to appreciate how very important it was, how very attractive it was, how very rare it was, to be fully alive.

When someone shoots at us, we return fire,” said Jean-Guy. Now Jacques did nod. “But it’s equally important that when someone is kind to us, we return that as well,

While Henri had a huge heart, he had quite a modest brain. His head was taken up almost entirely by his ears. In fact, his head seemed simply a sort of mount for those ears. Fortunately Henri didn’t really need his head. He kept all the important things in his heart.

This is the most important thing I will ever say to you. The human mind is the ultimate testing device. You can take all the notes you want on the technical data, anything you forget you can look up again, but this must be engraved on your hearts in letters of fire. There is nothing, nothing, nothing, more important to me in the men and women I train than their absolute personal integrity. Whether you function as welders or inspectors, the laws of physics are implacable lie detectors. You may fool men. You will never fool metal. That’s all.

I decided to become a policeman to speak for the dead. They have no one else, you see. Somewhere there’s always proof of what happened, some piece of evidence that will obtain a conviction. It’s important for the guilty to be brought to justice, I think. Without justice, there’s chaos.

Henri kept everything important in his heart. He mostly kept cookies in his head.

The traffic warden looked up. "This your car?" "It is," said Skulduggery. The traffic warden nodded. "Very nice, very nice. But you can't park here, day or night." "I wasn't aware of that." "There's a sign right over there." "I didn't think it applied to me." "Why wouldn't it have applied to you?" Skulduggery tilted his head. "Because I'm special." "Don't care how special you think you are, you're parked in a no parking area and as such you're---" "We're here on official police business." The traffic warden narrowed his eyes. "You're Garda? I'm going to need to see some identification." "We're undercover," said Skulduggery. "This is a very important undercover operation which you are endangering just by talking to us." He opened his jacket. "Look, I have a gun. I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her." The traffic warden frowned. "Her?" "Me," said Stephanie. "Him?" "Not me," said Skulduggery. "Her." "Me," said Stephanie. "You?" said the traffic warden. "Yes," said Stephanie. "I"m sorry, who are you?" Stephanie looked at him. "I'm Her, he's Me. Got it? Good. You better get out of here before you blow our cover. They've got snipers.

It’s important, Madeleine, not to cut people out of our lives. Isolation doesn’t make us better at our job. It makes us weaker, more vulnerable.

Jilly Beaton's a vicious cow. Inspectors love her, but she's a cow when they've gone." "Back home in Argentina," sniffed Isabella, "cows are very important, but they know their place.

Most of the people came through my door because of a crisis in their lives, and most of those crises boiled down to loss. Loss of a marriage or an important relationship. Loss of security. A job, a home, a parent. Something drove them to ask for help and to look deep inside themselves. And the catalyst was often change and loss.

The jury, having swallowed at one nauseating gulp the business of viewing the body, had settled into their places with that air of conscious importance and simulated modesty which belongs to those initiated into a mystery.

Some might argue that Three Pines itself isn’t real, and they’d be right, but limited in their view. The village does not exist, physically. But I think of it as existing in ways that are far more important and powerful. Three Pines is a state of mind. When we choose tolerance over hate. Kindness over cruelty. Goodness over bullying. When we choose to be hopeful, not cynical. Then we live in Three Pines.

There’s a thing called narcissistic personality disorder. People who have an inflated sense of their own importance, a lack of empathy for others. They’re vain, they crave the power over others they think they deserve. They can be arrogant and callous. They think they’re better than everybody else and they don’t care who they trample on in their desire to get what they want.’ ‘A bit like Donald Trump, then?

I can’t say I liked him much. He was too full of his own importance if you ask me. Don’t trust these Americans,

So many gods. Which was the god of test scores? Which was the god of unmarried shopgirls who wished to stay that way? She decided to simply pray to all of them. “If you exist, if you’re up there, help me. Give me a way out of this shithole. Or, if you can’t do that, give the import inspector a heart attack.” She looked around the empty temple. What came next? She had always imagined that praying involved more than just speaking out loud. She spied several unused incense sticks lying by the altar. She lit the end of them by dipping it in the brazier, and then waved it experimentally in the air. Was she supposed to hold the smoke to the gods? Or should she smoke the stick herself? She had just held the burned end to her nose when a temple custodian strode out from behind the altar. They blinked at each other. Slowly, Rin removed the incense stick from her nostril. “Hello,” she said. “I’m praying.” “Please leave,” he said.

He hadn’t realized that the ordinary little things that happened, the ones that took place between the big events while waiting for something more exciting to happen – they were the most important, after all.

This is a very important undercover operation which you are endangering just by talking to us.” He opened his jacket. “Look, I have a gun. I am Detective Inspector Me. This is my partner, Detective Her.” The traffic warden frowned. “Her?” “Me,” said Stephanie. “Him?” “Not me,” said Skulduggery. “Her.” “Me,” said Stephanie. “You?” said the traffic warden. “Yes,” said Stephanie. “I’m sorry, who are you?” Stephanie looked at him. “I’m Her, he’s Me. Got it? Good.

We look to the so-called important figures. We value the papers left behind by Premiers, Prime Ministers, Presidents—by the most prominent witnesses to history—and forget there are other witnesses. The people who actually lived it. The First Nations. The farmers. The cooks and cleaners and salespeople. The laborers. The immigrants, the minorities.

And she didn’t care about any one, just this one. She wanted the man who shared her soul to also share her vision. At least once. Just once. And here it was. And, blessing of blessings, it was the one painting that mattered more than any other. The one she would be showing to the most important gallery owner in Quebec in just a few days now. The one she’d poured everything into. ‘But are the colors quite right?’ Peter leaned into the easel then stepped back, not looking at her. ‘Well, I’m sure they are. You know what you’re doing.’ He kissed her and whispered, ‘Congratulations,’ into her ear. Then he left. Clara stepped back and stared at the canvas. Peter was one of the most respected and successful artists in Canada. Maybe he was right. The painting looked fine to her, but still

So few women made it to the top of the tree and for every one of them who understood the importance of solidarity, there was one ready with an axe to chop any other contender off at the knees. It wasn’t just lonely at the top. Sometimes it was lonely all the way from the ground up. She held her arms out at her sides and gave her hands and wrists a good shake. The physical action made her feel as if she’d shucked off the encounter with the Dog Biscuit. She knew it wasn’t that simple and that it would return to plague her later, but for now, she’d parked those complicated emotions. She was an investigator; time she did some investigating. Jason was out in the field trying to track down camper van records from 1995. The least she could do was try to come at the case from a different angle.

Reading Group Guide Questions Discussion questions for The Three Pines Mysteries, by Louise Penny 1. How important is the use of humor in this book? 2. Which Three Pines villager would you most like to have cafe au lait with at the bistro? 3. Why is Ruth a villager? 4. Louise Penny says her books are about murder, but at their heart they’re about other things. What else is this book about? What are some other themes? 5. Agent Nichol is an extremely controversial character in the books. What do you think of her? What purpose does she serve? Discussion questions for Still Life 1. At the beginning of Still Life, we are told that “violent death still surprised” Chief Inspector Armand Gamache. Why is that odd for a homicide detective, and how does it influence his work? What are his strengths and his weaknesses? 2. The village of Three Pines is not on any map, and when Gamache and Agent Nicole first arrive there, they see “the inevitable paradox. An old stone mill sat beside a pond, the mid-morning sun warming its fieldstones. Around it the maples and birches and wild cherry trees held their fragile leaves, like thousands of happy hands waving to them on arrival. And police cars. The snakes in Eden.” Can you find other echoes of Paradise in Three Pines, and what role do snakes—real or metaphorical—play there? 3. There are three main couples in the book: Clara and Peter, Olivier and Gabri, and

Well to hell with them. He’d done his duty, he’d paid his respects. He wouldn’t bother them any more. Let them live in their cramped flat, visited by this … gentleman, this mock adult. Rebus had more important things to do. Books to read. Notes to make. And another busy day ahead. It was ten o’clock. He could be back at his hotel by eleven. An early night, that’s what was needed. Eight hours’ sleep in the last two days. No wonder he was ratty, looking for a fight. He began to feel a little bit ashamed. Kenny was too easy a target. He’d crushed a tiny fly beneath a tower-block of resentment. Resentment, John, or plain jealousy? That was not a question for a tired man. Not a question for a man like John Rebus. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he might start getting some answers. He was determined to pay for his keep now that he had been brought to London. Tomorrow, the task began in earnest. He shook Kenny’s hand again and gave him a man-to-man half-wink before leaving the flat. Rhona offered to see him to the door. They went into the hall, leaving

Some would have called him fussy. But on matters of such importance, he knew he was merely being correct.

The pride in strength and important mystery showed no less in the eyes of the sweepers than in those of the machinists and inspectors, and in those of the foreman, who alone was without a lunchbox. A

It was a miracle, finding myself a father. I can’t tell you. He was so small, and yet so real. He moved, he made sounds, he opened his eyes and stared into my face. His hands clutched at my fingers. It was unexpected, the depth of my feelings for him even then. I’d have done anything for him. Died for him if need be. Nothing I’d ever done to that point in my life seemed half so important.

His theory is that life is loss,’ said Myrna after a moment. ‘Loss of parents, loss of loves, loss of jobs. So we have to find a higher meaning in our lives than these things and people. Otherwise we’ll lose ourselves.’ ‘What do you think of that?’ ‘I think he’s right. I was a psychologist in Montreal before coming here a few years ago. Most of the people came through my door because of a crisis in their lives, and most of those crises boiled down to loss. Loss of a marriage or an important relationship. Loss of security. A job, a home, a parent. Something drove them to ask for help and to look deep inside themselves. And the catalyst was often change and loss.

There is nothing, nothing, nothing more important to me in the men and women I train than their absolute personal integrity. Whether you function as welders or inspectors, the laws of physics are implacable lie detectors. You may fool men. You will never fool the metal. That’s all.

Writing to Gov. Nicholas Cooke on October 12, 1776, he explained, The Advantages arising from a judicious appointment of Officers, and the fatal consequences that result from the want of them, are too obvious to require Arguments to prove them; I shall, therefore, beg leave to add only, that as the well doing, nay the very existence of every Army, to any profitable purposes, depend upon it, that too much regard cannot be had to the choosing of Men of Merit and such as are, not only under the influence of a warm attachment to their Country, but who also possess sentiments of principles of the strictest honor. Men of this Character, are fit for Office, and will use their best endeavours to introduce that discipline and subordination, which are essential to good order, and inspire that Confidence in the Men, which alone can give success to the interesting and important contest in which we are engaged. 50 Washington consistently underscored his view of the “immense consequence” of having “men of the most respectable characters” as the officers surrounding the commanderin chief. He wrote years later to Secretary of War, James McHenry as a new army was being contemplated to address the post-French Revolutionary government: To remark to a Military Man how all important the General Staff of an Army is to its well being, and how essential consequently to the Commander in Chief, seems to be unnecessary; and yet a good choice is of such immense consequence, that I must be allowed to explain myself. The Inspector General, Quartermaster General, Adjutant General, and Officer commanding the Corps of Artillerists and Engineers, ought to be men of the most respectable characters, and of first rate abilities; because, from the nature of their respective Offices, and from their being always about the Commander in Chief who is obliged to entrust many things to them confidentially, scarcely any movement can take place without their knowledge. It follows then, that besides possessing the qualifications just mentioned, they ought to have those of Integrity and prudence in

This is J. B. Priestley's 1945 play An Inspector Calls, and the message it contains - that we do not live alone, that we live in a society where we bear a collective responsibility towards each other - is one of the most important literary calls to activism that teenagers will encounter.

This was the Gamaches’ Sunday ritual. In lives so unpredictable, they found sanctuary in certainty. Even if just for a moment. Life was, after all, made up of tiny choices. Like a pointillist painting, no one dot, no one choice, defined it. But together? There emerged a picture. A life. Where to live, where to sit. What to eat, to drink, to wear. Whether to cut the grass or let it become meadow. What to say and, perhaps more important, what not to say. What job to take. What calling.

When people come to you to be married, you tend to put the couple through their paces beforehand, don’t you?’ ‘I give them pastoral advice.’ ‘You tell them what marriage is all about; warn them that it’s not all lovey-dovey and that as soon as you have children it’s a different kettle of fish altogether . . . .’ Knowing that Inspector Keating had three children under the age of seven, Sidney recognised that he had to be careful of his reply: ‘Well, I . . .’ ‘There’s the money worries, and the job worries and you start to grow old. Then you realise that you’ve married someone with whom you have nothing in common. You have nothing left to say to each other. That’s the kind of thing you tell them, isn’t it?’ ‘I wouldn’t put it exactly like that . . .’ ‘But that’s the gist?’ ‘I do like to make it a bit more optimistic, Geordie. How friendship sometimes matters more than passion. The importance of kindness . . .’ ‘Yes, yes, but you know what I’m getting at.

Why do national reform priorities keep getting misinterpreted on the ground? The federal Department of Education has no power over state legislatures or education departments. There are no federal inspectors of local schools to make sure principals, superintendents, and school boards understand how to use complex new tools like value-added measurement of teachers. Unique among Western nations, our national government does not produce or select high-quality tests, textbooks, or reading lists for teachers to use. Lastly—and perhaps most importantly—we consistently expect teachers and schools to close achievement gaps and panic when they fail to do so. But we do not provide families with the full range of social supports children need to thrive academically, including living-wage employment and stable and affordable child care, housing, higher education, and vocational training, in addition to decent nutrition and health care.

many people do not usually take the time to think about the foundation upon which they are building their lives. When it comes to buying a house, I see that people care a great deal about the foundations of the property they are about to buy. My dad is a realtor, and before he sells a house, before people trust him with the investment of hundreds of thousands of their dollars, he recommends the buyers hire a home inspector to carefully check the structural soundness of the house, and most importantly, the foundation upon which the potential investment is built. My dad would tell you that, no matter how beautiful or decorated it may be, without a strong foundation; it is doomed. If the foundation is cracked or unstable in any way, the house needs to be torn down and rebuilt on a proper base.

Well,” he said. “The troublesome two.” “Troublesome to whom?” asked Andrew. “Us at the Yard. Though I’ll admit you’ve given a certain amount of trouble to a few yobbos, too.” “I should say we have,” said Sara. “You wouldn’t have solved half the cases you have if it wasn’t for us. Where’s Wyatt?” “He’ll be along. He was on his way here when the commissioner sent for him. So he sent me over to tell you why he was late and that he’d be here when he could.” “Something up?” asked Andrew. “There’s always something up at the Yard. What do you think we do all day, sit around figuring form for the races?” “I know you do most of the time. But I meant something important. There must be if the commissioner sent for Wyatt.” “How do you know he didn’t want to ask him who his tailor is?” “He probably asked him that a long time ago,” said Sara. “Come on, Sergeant. Tell us.” “I will not. That’s how the trouble always starts. Someone tells you three words about a case, and the next thing we know you’re in it up to your sit-me-downs.” “All right,” said Andrew. “Just tell us if it’s animal, vegetable or mineral.” “I’ll tell you nothing. I’ll tell Frank here,” he said to the waiter who had reappeared, “what his nibs is having for lunch. And by the time it gets here, he’ll be here. A steak and kidney pie for the inspector, Frank.” “And a pint of your best bitter, of course.” “Of course.” Sara and Andrew decided to have steak and kidney pie, too, and Tucker proved to be as good a prophet in this as he was in most things, for about the time the waiter reappeared with their order, Wyatt came hurrying in. “Sorry I’m late. You explained?” he asked Tucker. “I did.” “I left a note on your desk. Take care of it as soon as you can.” “Aren’t you having lunch with us?” Sara asked Tucker. “Someone has to hold the fort,” said the sergeant. “I’ll grab a bite at the pub, but I suspect I’ll be seeing the two of you again sometime soon.” And giving them an exaggerated salute, he left.

When money and comfort are absent, other more fundamental aspects take on greater importance. Traditions, rules, taboos.

All this comes,” Nekhludoff thought, “from the fact that all these people, governors, inspectors, police officers, and men, consider that there are circumstances in which human relations are not necessary between human beings. All these men, Maslennikoff, and the inspector, and the convoy officer, if they were not governor, inspector, officer, would have considered twenty times before sending people in such heat in such a mass—would have stopped twenty times on the way, and, seeing that a man was growing weak, gasping for breath, would have led him into the shade, would have given him water and let him rest, and if an accident had still occurred they would have expressed pity. But they not only did not do it, but hindered others from doing it, because they considered not men and their duty towards them but only the office they themselves filled, and held what that office demanded of them to be above human relations. That’s what it is,” Nekhludoff went on in his thoughts. “If one acknowledges but for a single hour that anything can be more important than love for one’s fellowmen, even in some one exceptional case, any crime can be committed without a feeling of guilt.

She held a worn copy of Brother Albert’s book, Loss. Gamache shook his head and figured it probably wasn’t the cheeriest of reads. She turned it over in her huge hands and seemed to caress it. ‘His theory is that life is loss,’ said Myrna after a moment. ‘Loss of parents, loss of loves, loss of jobs. So we have to find a higher meaning in our lives than these things and people. Otherwise we’ll lose ourselves.’ ‘What do you think of that?’ ‘I think he’s right. I was a psychologist in Montreal before coming here a few years ago. Most of the people came through my door because of a crisis in their lives, and most of those crises boiled down to loss. Loss of a marriage or an important relationship. Loss of security. A job, a home, a parent. Something drove them to ask for help and to look deep inside themselves. And the catalyst was often change and loss.’ ‘Are they the same thing?’ ‘For someone not well skilled at adapting they can be.’ ‘Loss of control?’ ‘That’s a huge one, of course. Most of us are great with change, as long as it was our idea. But change imposed from the outside can send some people into a tailspin. I think Brother Albert hit it on the head. Life is loss. But out of that, as the book stresses, comes freedom. If we can accept that nothing is permanent, and change is inevitable, if we can adapt, then we’re going to be happier people.’ ‘What brought you here? Loss?’ ‘That’s hardly fair, Chief Inspector, now you’ve got me. Yes. But not in a conventional way, since of course I always have to be special and different.’ Myrna put back her head and laughed at herself. ‘I lost sympathy with many of my patients. After twenty-five years of listening to their complaints I finally snapped. I woke up one morning bent out of shape about this client who was forty-three but acting sixteen. Every week he’d come with the same complaints, “Someone hurt me. Life is

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While Henri had a huge heart, he had quite a modest brain. His head was taken up almost entirely by his ears. In fact, his head seemed simply a sort of mount for those ears. Fortunately, Henri didn't really need his head. He kept all the important things in his heart, except, perhaps, his current address.

He hated it, hated it, when Gamache pushed him like that. Not physically, but pushed him to consider feelings. Beliefs. Emotions. When Gamache insisted that they could possibly be as important as thoughts. As facts.

What condition?’ ‘He's got a bad heart as well as the leg injuries he got in the war which put him in his wheelchair.’ ‘Ah.’ If there was one thing which every policeman knew it was that families were bad for every medical condition, but especially for heart ones. Legs were less important.

One night back in the 1970s, I was driving home to my quarters at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, where I had commanded the 2nd Brigade of the 101st Airborne Division for about a year, when I saw in the dark a soldier walking along the road heading for the gate. He probably lived with his wife in the trailer park just outside the gate. I stopped and offered him a ride. “Why are you going home so late?” I asked him as we drove along. “My buddies and I’ve been working hard to get ready for an inspector general inspection coming up,” he answered. Then he looked at me. “Sir, who are you?” he asked. “I’m your brigade commander,” I told him, taken aback. “How long have you been in command?” he asked. “Over a year,” I said. “Is it a good job?” he asked. “Yes, great,” I replied. Jeez, after a year of being all over the brigade area, here is a soldier who doesn’t recognize me. Something’s wrong. “How do you think you guys will do in the inspection?” I then asked. “We’ll do great,” he answered. “We’ve been working hard for weeks, and my captain, lieutenants, and sergeants have been pushing us. They’ve been telling us how important the inspection is; they’ve been working just as hard as we have.” Then he said simply, “We’re not going to let them down.

If there was one thing the senior police officer understood, it was that everyone had strengths. And weaknesses. The important thing was to recognize them. And not expect something from someone who didn’t have it to give.

about how we are all “emigrants from a country we remember too little of,” how important to us are the fragments we do remember clearly and how we spend our time trying to reconstruct ourselves from these.

that seaweedy smell of the sea on an indented coast. It was strange to smell it so unpreparedly in such unsealike surroundings. It was still more strange to come on it suddenly as a small green pool among the hills. Only the brown surge of the weed along the rocks proclaimed the fact that it was ocean and not moor loch. But as they swept into Garnie with all the éclat of the most important thing in twenty-four hours, the long line of Garnie sands lay bare in the evening light, a violet sea creaming gently on their silver placidity. The car decanted him at the flagged doorway of his hostelry, but, hungry as he was, he lingered in the door to watch the light die beyond the flat purple outline of the islands to the west. The stillness was full of the clear, far-away sounds of evening. The air smelt of peat smoke and the sea. The first lights of the village shone daffodil-clear here and there. The sea grew lavender, and the sands became a pale shimmer in the dusk.

Instead he fell in love. With a woman who also fell in love with him. And that tends to obviate past injustices, doesn’t it? One can hardly concentrate on destroying the self when the other becomes so much more important.

At first glance it appeared little different from all the others. A quick in-and-out job with seventy-nine pounds in cash being taken. The thieves always took cash – it was instantly negotiable, it couldn’t be traced and it made the task of the police almost impossible. Frost sniffed. He knew Lil Carey. She was an unregistered money lender, lending out small sums of money, usually to housewives, at exorbitant interest rates. She’d never miss seventy-nine pounds. He wished the thieves had got away with more. But then he realized the ‘£’ had been scratched through by the reporting officer and the word ‘sovereigns’ added. Seventy-nine sovereigns! Frost wasn’t sure of the current rate for sovereigns, but that quantity must surely be worth much more than four thousand pounds for the gold content alone; even more if they were Victorian and in mint condition. He stuffed the report in his pocket. They would call on old mother Carey this morning without fail. The door was kicked open and Webster entered with the two cups of tea, his expression making it quite clear how much he relished being asked to perform these menial tasks. ‘Thanks, son,’ muttered Frost, who had learned that it was best to ignore the constable’s repertoire of frowns, scowls, and grimaces. He disturbed the mud of sugar with his ballpoint pen and took a sip. ‘Tastes like cat’s pee.’ He swivelled in his chair. ‘Something important we had to do this morning. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was.’ ‘The dead man in the toilets. You had to break the news.’ ‘That was it!’ exclaimed Frost. ‘Mr Dawson phoned,’ Webster told him. ‘Dawson?’ Frost screwed up his face. ‘Who’s he?’ ‘The father of the missing schoolgirl. He wanted to know if there was

everyone had strengths. And weaknesses. The important thing was to recognize them. And not expect something from someone who didn’t have it to give.

Shortly after the advent of Louis Philippe, the movement to save France’s architectural heritage began in earnest. One of the more important acts in this preservation campaign occurred shortly after the July Revolution, when the official post of inspector of historical monuments was created; then, seven years later, the Commission on Historical Monuments was established, with Prosper Merimee, the renowned novelist and passionate archaeologist, at its head. Under the auspices of this agency surveys were made of monuments all over France, and requests for funds for restorations were directed to Parliament. At odds with our present notion that a good restoration is a minimal one, the nineteenth-century concept included additions that were in some way in keeping with the spirit of the building. This entailed adding intense polychromy and mural paintings to the walls of many of these newly appreciated edifices.

Later that month, the State Department’s inspector general reported that a handful of Hillary’s e-mails contained information that was classified at the time the messages were sent. While it’s not possible to send e-mails directly from the government’s classified systems to outside accounts, there are a few ways in which classified material can end up in outside e-mail—for example, information that should have been classified was not categorized that way by the sender, or someone unwittingly included secret or sensitive passages in a message sent outside the classified systems. Hillary and her aides argued that she was being railroaded by agencies retroactively classifying information in some cases, and, in others, citing material that was not marked classified when it passed into and out of her in-box. Ultimately, what they were saying was that Hillary clearly didn’t intend to transmit classified information—a legal distinction that would become important when federal investigators considered whether to charge her with a crime. In addition, the vast majority of the e-mails that included classified material were traded with people who had security clearances consistent with the levels at which the information in question was classified. That is, Hillary wasn’t giving out secrets to people who shouldn’t have had them; she was just e-mailing the right people on the wrong system. But from a public relations perspective, the technicalities didn’t matter. Hillary had told the nation that she didn’t traffic in classified information, and government investigators put the lie to that assertion day after day. In many cases, the twists and turns—the discovery of more highly classified material—played out first in stories leaked to the media for maximum impact.

England’s history is as remarkable as it is old. England has not been subjugated since 1066. It has not been torn apart by civil war since the mid-17th century. Eleven people died in England’s notorious Peterloo massacre; 10,000 died in the Paris Commune. Yet this peaceable kingdom has been remarkably successful in projecting its power abroad. By the mid-19th century it ruled a quarter of the world’s population, using some brutality (its navy forced the Chinese to import opium) but mostly light-touch imperialism. In the late 19th century the Indian civil service employed no more than 2,000 people, fewer than the number who work today for Ofsted, the schools inspectorate.

Not for the first time but perhaps more positively and tellingly than before, he was realising how insignificant he had become in the great scheme of law and order, of lawmaking and law-implementing, of having nothing to do in a society where doing things was all-important.