Quotes About Intrigue

Wind of the night, Questing, swaying, calling, Rustle of dull grasses, Why do you trouble me?

Margo always loved mysteries. And in everything that came afterward, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one.

She loved mysteries so much that she became one.

The jeweled crown opens, and inside the lid are two hearts and a golden

Morton and the rest of the conspirators, around eighty in all, came up the main staircase

Darnley was the first to appear. He entered the supper room and spoke to Mary.

But somewhere deep inside him a glass tube clanked.

sympathetic. "Look, Clyde. We never found Alyssa. And the way this case has unfolded . . . people are asking questions." "About what?

A cat may look on a king.

A truly happy woman drives some men and almost every other woman absolutely crazy

For company he had a grease-stained paperback copy of Ian Fleming's Thunderball. Jerry yawned as he flipped pages, envying James Bond as he thwarted assassins and terrorists, darting from close call to close call and from bed to bed, barely lingering to enjoy the scent of the gorgeous women who found him irresistible.

what's going on

una locura con un inconfundible toque de inteligencia, porque provocará que me sume a ella.»

Find the psychosis in flower, he thought.

Rumplestilskin ha vuelto

Anonymity, he thought, is seductive.

I think it is a medically proven fact that the older one gets, the more quick one is two spots conspiracies. Skulduggery. Cloak and dagger stuff.

We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us—and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great & unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

But I was used to finding something deadly in things that attracted me; there was always something deadly lurking in anything I wanted, anything I loved.

D'ye know the Black Swan, East India Dock Road?' Troy shook his head. 'Bloke found dead in his room. Blood all over the place. Door locked from the inside. A real Sherlock Holmes-er.

A spy, like a writer, lives outside the mainstream population. He steals his experience through bribes and reconstructs it.

A mole is a deep penetration agent so called because he burrows deep into the fabric of Western imperialism.

During the Cold War, we lived in coded times when it wasn't easy and there were shades of grey and ambiguity.

But I think the real tension lies in the relationship between what you might call the pursuer and his quarry, whether it's the writer or the spy.