unearths some literary gems.
From The Immaterial Murder Case, by Julian Symons:
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This poem is reproduced by permission of the magazine Yes and No in which it first appeared.
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In person Mrs P. is tall and angular with lots of flapping, jingling things about her.
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“I asked if he would like to combine with me on my translations from the Chinese, and he was quite rude. And it’s difficult for me to do them alone, because I don’t really know any Chinese.”
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“You do drink whisky, don’t you?”
“Does a cat swim?”
I couldn’t remember.
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I’d come to the conclusion already that Woode was a damned bad detective, but one thing I must say for him, he has the queerest way of popping out by your side, almost from under your elbow or out of your pocket, when you don’t expect it.
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Knew-it-all-the-time was now mixed with If-you’d-only-told-me-before in Woode’s expression.
