The Bungalow Mystery Quotes

Chuckling to herself, Nancy said aloud, "Romance and detective work won't mix tonight!

I don’t believe it,” said Stumpy ungratefully. His wife was more gracious. “Thanks, Miss Drew. And I want to tell you I’m tired of this whole business. You’re only a kid but you’ve really taught me a lesson.

The girl shook her head. “I feel I’m not wanted. The letter wasn’t cordial. Oh dear, what shall I do?” Nancy gave Laura a hug. “You’ll be at school and during vacations you can visit friends. And you have a new friend named Nancy Drew!

Upon leaving the dining room an hour later, she lingered on the porch for a few minutes, watching couples dance. As a red-haired young man began to walk toward Nancy with an invitation in his eyes for her to dance, she hastily went to her room.

Nancy scanned the buildings and found that this one was the largest on the street. It was

don’t believe it,” said Stumpy ungratefully. His wife was more gracious. “Thanks, Miss Drew. And I want to tell you I’m tired of this whole business. You’re only a kid but you’ve really taught me a lesson.

brushing her hair until it snapped with electricity

IF anybody had been there to observe the gentle-looking elderly lady who stood meditatively on the loggia outside her bungalow, they would have thought she had nothing more on her mind than deliberation on how to arrange her time that day. An expedition, perhaps, to Castle Cliff; a visit to Jamestown; a nice drive and lunch at Pelican Point_ or just a quiet morning on the beach. But the gentle old lady was deliberating quite other matters. She was in a militant mood.

When the three girls stepped outside, Nancy took a deep breath of air. She loved the earthy smell of the forests surrounding the lake resort, particularly the scent of the tall pines. “What a day!” she exclaimed. Only a few fleecy white clouds broke the clear blue sky.

Nancy thanked him, then went to her convertible. She drove carefully through the city traffic and finally reached Hilo Street. Mrs. Stewart’s apartment house was Number 76. Nancy scanned the buildings and found that this one was the largest on the street. It was ultramodern in design and about twenty stories high. After parking her car, she smoothed her hair and got out. A red-coated doorman nodded pleasantly to the young detective as she entered the building a minute later. Nancy checked the directory and saw that Mrs. Stewart was in Apartment Three on the fourth floor. She rang the elevator button. Almost instantly, aluminum doors slid open noiselessly, and Nancy stepped inside the carpeted elevator. It was self-operated, and Nancy pushed the fourth-floor control.

years, my family had sold the estate around the house, piece by piece, so that the sprawling peach orchard and even the grand front drive had given way to tidy bungalows lining the long road to the main house. Grandma had said it made gossip travel even faster, the way they built houses so close together these days. I always told her that the good citizens of Sugarland, Tennessee, needed no help. Still, I loved the place. And I absolutely despised letting

Nancy, blue-eyed, and with reddish-gold glints in her blond hair, was at the wheel. She gazed anxiously across a long expanse of water to the distant shores of Twin Lakes. The Pinecrest Motel, where the eighteen-year-old girl and her older friend were staying, was almost two miles away on the smaller of the two lakes. Helen Corning, dark-haired and petite, looked at Nancy with concern. “I think we’re in for a cloudburst,” she said, “and Twin Lakes becomes as rough as the ocean in a storm.

The people like me, finally, after years and years of agitation, made deeply moving and eloquent speeches against the wrongness of your domination over us, and then finally, after the mutilated bodies of you, your wife, and your children were found in your beautiful and spacious bungalow at the edge of your rubber plantation—found by one of your many house servants (none of it was ever yours; it was never, ever yours)—you say to me, “Well, I wash my hands of all of you, I am leaving now,” and you leave, and from afar you watch as we do to ourselves the very things you used to do to us. And you might feel that there was more to you than that, you might feel that you had understood the meaning of the Age of Enlightenment (though, as far as I can see, it had done you very little good); you loved knowledge, and wherever you went you made sure to build a school, a library (yes, and in both of these places you distorted or erased my history and glorified your own). But then again, perhaps as you observe the debacle in which I now exist, the utter ruin that I say is my life, perhaps you are remembering that you had always felt people like me cannot run things, people like me will never grasp the idea of Gross National Product, people like me will never be able to take command of the thing the most simpleminded among you can master, people like me will never understand the notion of rule by law, people like me cannot really think in abstractions, people like me cannot be objective, we make everything so personal. You will forget your part in the whole setup, that bureaucracy is one of your inventions, that Gross National Product is one of your inventions, and all the laws that you know mysteriously favour you.

When the meal was finished and the dishes had been put in the washer, Mr. Drew and Nancy went to his study, a comfortable room with book-lined shelves, deep-seated leather chairs, and a wide, highly polished mahogany desk. Nancy sat down in a yellow club chair, then said eagerly, “Come on, Dad, don’t hold out on me any longer about this case of yours.

Mrs.

Except for the sign on the front lawn, there wasn't much difference between this house and his. World War II bungalows with clapboard siding. Two bedrooms, one bath. A small lawn that ran out to the street. A peaked roof with dark asphalt shingles. Both ordinary, in all ways. One vacant. One empty.

of Ellis Wydell, deputy sheriff with the Sugarland Police Department and my new main squeeze. I tilted my head, cautiously optimistic. We stood in the front room of his modest 1940s bungalow, judging the merits of two different curtain panels, one a rich sage color, the other a lovely moss. I’d hung our options on