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Only of course you are so fully occupied with your mother. And, by the way, do you want a very good daily — because Mrs Woodley is leaving the Ashingtons. Fancy, after all these years! But, you know, we have her cousin Doris Wills, and she says So if you do want anyone They couldn't afford to have Mrs Woodley every day, and Miss Pimm knew it as well as Althea did herself.
She didn't mean to be unkind, but she had a darting, probing way with her. She believed in frankness. People oughtn't to mind saying if they were hard-up. Althea could say so, couldn't she? And then she could sympathize and say how dreadfully dear everything was, and she would go home and be able to tell Mabel and Lily that the Grahams really did seem to be hard up, and what a pity it was. The fact that everyone on the bus would be listening did not trouble her at all.
Neither she nor her sister had anything to hide, and why shouldn't everyone be as open as they were? There was, of course, no answer to that. Althea at any rate did not seem to have one.
Murder in a Basket (India Hayes Mystery Series #2)
She leaned back as far as she could in her seat and said in a tired voice,. Now Mrs Woodley is first-class, and you would find her such a comfort. And you really do look very tired. You can't afford to neglect yourself, or what would happen to your dear mother? Now with Mrs Woodley She concentrated on doing her errands. That was something she had learned to do in the last five years.
If you made yourself think about what you were doing, not just with a surface attention but as if each thing really mattered, it did help you to get through the day. She got the embroidery silk, refusing a near match at Gorton's and finding what she wanted at the little new shop in Kent Street.
She bought fish and she changed the library book, and made the long detour to the hairdresser who sold the Sungleam preparations. There was just a moment when the drilled routine of her thoughts was broken through. She inquired about the shampoo for her mother.
It was just as if she was pushing something away. She went on hurriedly. She has fair hair with just a little grey in it — really not much at all. The new salesgirl was a good saleswoman. She said she knew just what madam wanted and produced it. Now why don't you try it for yourself? I'm sure you'd be pleased.
It's wonderful how it brings up the lights in the hair. Makes it ever so soft and pretty too. It was the girl's 'Why? It hadn't any business there. It just gate-crashed and stayed — a determined and shameless fifth-columnist. Before she knew what she was going to do she heard herself say, 'Oh, I don't know Althea came out of the shop with two bottles of Sungleam, one for fair hair and the other for brown.
The girl had also sold her a pot of vanishing-cream, and had tried to persuade her into lipstick and rouge, but she had come to with a jerk and made her escape. Locked away at the back of her mind there were things which must on no account be allowed to push their way out. She was aware of them there, stirring, rising, struggling. Something in the hot scented air of the shop, the whirr of driers in the background, the rows of bottles, the creams and lotions, the vivid scarlet of nail-polish, the whole array of all the frivolous things that minister to beauty, encouraged them to struggle.
It was years since she had had her hair done at a shop. It was years since she had stopped using make-up. It was years since she had stopped taking any interest in how she looked. She walked on a little way, and then stood still. You can't just stand still in a crowded street. There has to be a reason for it. She turned and stared into a bookshop which was displaying about twenty-five copies of a book with a jacket where a scarlet skull grinned from a bright green background. It might have been twice as bright and Althea wouldn't have noticed it. If anyone saw her, she was just looking in at the window.
No one was to know that it was because she could no longer turn her face to the street. Civilization has not destroyed the primitive emotions, but it insists that they should function in private. The extremities of happiness, pain, despair, and shame must not affront the public gaze. It was shame, burning and overwhelming shame, that had come upon Althea. As she walked away from Burrage's with her shopping-basket heavy on her arm, two things came together in her mind.
Nothing more. Until he receives a sext from a wrong number. A mystery yoga instructor offering a private session to teach him the plow, and maybe even get plowed. Because time is running out. Jasper has to leave, has to return to London and real life. What do you say? The serene smile morphed into a grin. I know just the place. He glanced over his shoulder at the sprawl of buildings that made up the resort before he looked back at me, his eyes narrowing.
They sell the best seafood — whatever they catch on the day. You like seafood, yeah? Pushing his knees up off the sand to come into a squat, he dropped one hand to the sun lounger and then brushed his lips over my cheek. Seven okay? I nodded, and he sauntered off all long strides and fluid moves. With my stud of a yoga teacher. She has been reading romance since she was old enough to tell herself that line every book lover does — just one more chapter. When not writing or reading, Beth can be found procrastinating on social media or being dragged around the English countryside by her dog Freddie.
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Enter the Rafflecopter giveaway. Today we have Tricia Owens on the blog to tell us a little more about their new release! Amazon US. Amazon UK. There, he encounters the mysteriously hostile casino manager, Taylor Brant.
Jack is on a downward spiral. Unfortunately for him, the strange forest surrounding the casino only increases his desire to do something reckless. Something desperate. Yet Jack, hurting and needing to pay penance, tumbles into a series of dark, highly charged encounters with Brant which threaten to shatter them both. He was immediately embarrassed for having said it.
He was in foreign territory, literally and figuratively. All his experience as a detective, all his street smarts, meant next to nothing when it came to his occasional and unwanted attraction to specific men. It was like a flare-up of a rash—unpredictable, unwelcome, and woefully incurable.