She liked Victorian novels. They were the only kind of novel you could read while eating an apple.

She liked Victorian novels. They were the only kind of novel you could read while eating an apple.

Dawn crept over the Downs like a sinister white animal, followed by the snarling cries of a wind eating its way between the black boughs of the thorns. The wind was the furious voice of this sluggish animal light that was baring the dormers and mullions and scullions of Cold Comfort Farm.

The life of a journalist is poor, nasty, brutish, and short. So is his style

You have the most revolting Florence Nightingale complex,' said Mrs. Smiling. It is not that at all, and well you know it. On the whole, I dislike my fellow beings; I find them so difficult to understand. But I have a tidy mind and untidy lives irritate me. Also, they are uncivilized.

Like all really strong-minded women, on whom everybody flops, she adored being bossed about. It was so restful.

That would be delightful,' agreed Flora, thinking how nasty and boring it would be.