The bowl landed, in glorious perfection, atop the head of Mrs Barnaclegoose, who was not the kind of woman to appreciate the finer points of being crowned by trifle.

Who doesn’t want an exploding wicker chicken?

I mean to say, really, I am near to developing a neurosis - is there anyone around who doesn't want to study or kill me?" Floote raised a tentative hand. "Ah, yes, thank you, Floote." "There is also Mrs Tunstell, madam," he offered hopefully, is if Ivy were some kind of consolation prize. "I notice you don't mention my fair-weather husband." "I suspect, at this moment, madam, he probably wants to kill you." Alexia couldn't help smiling. "Good point.

She was no closer to determining who might want her dead. There were just too many possibilities.

There are words to describe her, my dear, but one does not repeat them in polite company.

Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?

His eyes are peculiar. There is nothing in them, like an eclair without the cream filling. It's wrong, lack of cream.