Smiling back at her, it occurs to me that I've never met a mean librarian.

Your temperature's normal, though I'd say it's the only thing about you that is.

The CIA agent looked more dead than alive. Alex wondered if he had been hit, but there was no sign of any blood. Perhaps he was in shock.

I hear it still. As I lay down my pen and take to my bed, I am aware of the bow being drawn across the bridge and the music rises into the night sky. It is far away and barely audible - but there it is! A pizzicato. Then a tremelo. The style is unmistakable. It is Sherlock Holmes who is playing. It must be. I hope with all my heart that he is playing for me . . .

There are many things in life that cannot be explained.

I don't think my father was a bad man, all in all.

She tried to smile sympathetically, but with her face it wasn't quite possible.