Murder at the Castle

“What is it about women and spiders?” Alan inquired, shaking his head a little.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. (…) when I see a spider, or especially when I brush up against a web, my skin starts to crawl and I have to get away.”

(…) never be afraid to do something because you think you’ll look foolish. The secret to enjoying life is not to mind making a fool of yourself.

She had an ego the size of Siberia, and a heart the same temperature.

A long morning stretched in front of us, with little to do except fretting. I’m very good at fretting, although a long life ought to have taught me that the exercise is unproductive of anything except an upset stomach.

“Dorothy, let’s go for a ramble this morning. How are your knees faring?”
“Once I’m out of bed and moving, they’re splendid. I can almost forget they’re not original material.”

(…) James was as upset as Pat, and more demonstrative about it. He’s Irish, of course, and they tend not to clamp a lid on their emotions the way we chilly English do. Probably healthier, but it can be rather trying to live with.

One of the reason I love my husband so much is that, despite long years spent in law enforcement, having seen almost every evil that humans can perpetrate, he has never lost his compassion.

Artists, of whatever stripe—painters, musicians, actors—had an outlet. They could take whatever is boiling inside them and make it into something meaningful.

“I think you should have eaten a better lunch,” said Alan, with his usual infuriating assumption that my spirits are dependent upon my stomach. Infuriating because he’s so often right.

Alan’s voice was edging toward annoyed. Although he is a most even-tempered man, he tends, like most of the male sex, to be testy about the matter of asking directions.