"Someone is sending me anonymous letters."
"Wars, famine, drought, disease, the depression, we've lived through it all.… but Failsham Council will be the death of us all."
"Young lady, this is not an emporium prone to early closing. We didn't even close early during the war and you have no idea how difficult it was to get wool then."
"We thought you could find something out… that we could use to blackmail them with." "We appreciate it might take you time to find something with just about anything going nowadays and no one embarrassed by anything they do."
"The key to discovering the sender of those letters lies in the present, not the past."
"I remain confident of a constructive result."
"We don't believe in God or motorcars."
She advanced on him, knitting needles pointing dangerously in his direction, her tiny frame visibly shaking.
"Don't be fooled by that waif-like vision of angelic loveliness. There was nothing angelic about Angela."
"Even my wife doesn't know how bad things are."
"It can't be? Surely not?"
"She loved her airs and graces that one, but she was no better than she ought to be when all was said and done."
"We must rule nothing out."
"All this sneaking around isn't doing my ulcer any good."
"He'd learned all about hormones at school, and what they did to the body, but this was worse than anything he'd been warned about."
"I was a vicar's wife for years. No one and nothing surprises me, love…"
However much this wood-chopping helped invent his frustration at a world which seem to be turning against him, his rumbling stomach reminded him of his predicament – Felix Dawson-Jones hated salad, but not as much as he hated old-fashioned wool shops owned by stubborn spinsters.
"Adultery’s a sin, Mrs Hetherington."
"I don't think this is going to turn out to be an open and shut case do you, Ant?" "When are your cases ever open and shut, Jane?" "When indeed?
"Why are you making up such vile lies, woman?"
"You've received your first death threat by the way… We all have. It was a round-robin death threat."
"Beats me why they do it. Seems a lot of aggro and expense to me."
"What a can of worms we've opened!"
"That photograph of you… is very flattering.… That means the press like you when they do that." "That'll be why they've made me look petulant and slightly deranged."
"You've come to tell us an extraordinary story, haven't you, John?"
"I'm going to tell you a story, which began many moons ago…"
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