To Call That Writing, Madam, Is An

He Was A Puzzle. And Hyacinth Hated Puzzles. Well, No, In Truth She Loved Them. Provided, Of Course, That She Solved Them.

Michael Nodded Tersely, Eyeing A Table Across The Room. It Was Empty. So Empty. So Joyfully, Blessedly Empty. He Could Picture Himself A Very Happy Man At That Table. "not Feeling Very Conversational This Evening, Are We?" Colin Asked, Breaking Into His (admittedly Tame) Fantasies.

I Don't Know Whether To Toss You Through That Window Or Shake Your Hand And Say 'well Done'" Henry Said In A Tired Voice.

Elizabeth, You Resemble Nothing So Much As A Hen Trying To Hatch A Book.

In This Room,in This Minite,she Was His Everything