Abigail Adams could become my favorite historical sleuth.

For every wound, the ointment of time.

It was just like him, she thought; with him, a happy ending was always a foregone conclusion. But such was the power of his faith that when she was with him; she found herself believing in happy endings, too.

Autumn that year painted the countryside in vivid shades of scarlet, saffron and russet, and the days were clear and crisp under harvest skies.

Forget the threat of Hell's infernal flames. The true torture would condemn a man to wait and wait and wait - for an eternity

Men kill for many reasons, they steal but for one-greed.

Poor Wales. So far from Heaven, so close to England.