Quotes About Intrigue

Mrs. Scott, do you mind my asking why the alarm wasn't on?" This was from Mayhew. He had taken out a notebook and pen. His shoulders were hunched, as if someone had asked him to mimic a character from a Raymond Chandler novel.

of age. No distinguishing tattoos or birthmarks." He looked up, making sure he was being followed. "Five-ten

Art seems to be about coming up with your own story or take on each piece. This made me think about the mystery of the Mona Lisa. Everyone likes that painting cos they don't know the story behind it. Who is she? Why the cheeky smile? If the Mona Lisa was done today, we'd know everything there was to know about her cos she'd have sold her story to Heat magazine and done some open-hearted interview with a tabloid before the paint was dry.

Although our intellect always longs for clarity and certainty, our nature often finds uncertainty fascinating.

So what building are we breaking into? Give me all the information you've got and I'll hunt down the rest. By the way, when are we doing this? I glanced up. Tonight. Tonight? Oh, boy... Miracles 'R' Us. I assume that we're not going to go and ask permission for this.

Dr. Kellet himself wore a three-piece Harris tweed suit strung with a large gold fob watch. He smelled of cloves and pipe tobacco and had a twinkly look about him as if he were going to toast muffins or read a particularly good story to her, but instead he beamed at Ursula and said, So, I hear you tried to kill your maid? (Oh, that's why I'm here, Ursula thought.)

She had been here before. She had never been here before. There was always something just out of sight, just around a corner, something she could never chase down—something that was chasing her down.

Sylvia loved secrets and even if she didn't have any secrets she made sure that you thought she did. Amelia had no secrets, Amelia knew nothing. When she grew up she planned to know everything and to keep it all a secret.

This Jackson bloke was the ruddy Scarlet Pimpernel, here, there and everywhere, always one step ahead of Barry. And everywhere he went, women were disappearing.

I was distracted suddenly from these pleasant thoughts by noticing that, like the eyes in certain portraits, Heather's nipples seemed to have the uncanny ability to follow you around the room. This is the kind of observation that once made, cannot be unmade. Unfortunately.

The plot thickens," he said, and wished he hadn't said that because it sounded like something from a bad detective novel. "I think we have a suspect." That didn't sound much better. "My house has just exploded, by the way." At least that was novel.

She didn't feel she had the fortitude for all those Tudors, they were so relentlessly busy – all that bedding and beheading.

When, in the third book, we do learn the identity of the Blue Rose murderer, the information comes in a muted, nearly off-hand manner, and the man has died long before.

Men are intrigued by anything they do not completly control.

What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*

He was a mystery to her, and every time she tried to solve him it caused her a little more pain. But when she tired to give him up he pursued her in her thoughts, stronger each time.

And thoughts of no other man but you could possibly get through the picket lines to enter into my mind.

Well the frog men finally got Rosie.

One may as well go, as look into another man's house; because the eye may reach what the hand cannot.

Wild men, screaming through the keyholes.

The government bugged the men's room in the local disco lounge.

He was such a good man that people hated to see him coming.

Late last night and the night before, tommyknockers, tommyknockers knocking on my door. I wanna go out, don't know if I can 'cuz I'm so afraid of the tommyknocker man.

Who shot him? I asked. The grey man scratched the back of his neck and said: Somebody with a gun.