Sara Sheridan, British Bulldog Quotes

A chap’s impending death has a way of focusing the mind.

Reticence was clearly a national characteristic, even if the other person spoke French.

Mirabelle sat down, dropping into the cushions like a ball being caught in a large leather glove.

Escapers were the cream of the crop.

Afternoon drinkers shifted in the gloom as if they sensed new blood.

She picked up the stout and took a sip. It slid down her throat like silk.

She tried to focus on the element of riddle or at least puzzle contained in the letter and ignore the sense of doom that was sweeping through her like clouds rolling to the shore over open water.

If there’s one shade a woman of colour can’t wear it’s got to be the one everyone expects, hasn’t it?

Parisians were not easy to engage in conversation. Perhaps that was why the Resistance had been so successful.

Jack had been the love of her life and he was gone. It seemed now that there had never been bad times, though she knew that wasn’t true.

Food in wartime Britain, she had to admit, was hardly inspiring.

Mirabelle was always an enigma, and he had the sense that if he pushed her, she’d bolt.

This investigation felt difficult, like driving in fog.

The good thing about the aristocracy – German or English – was that they were easily traced, Mirabelle thought.

Covert operations relied on the unguarded slip, the unconscious choosing of one word over another.

It was nearly ten years since the peace though her memories of the war still felt fresh.

Didn’t young people care what the generation before them had achieved? And if not, why had everyone gone through those grim difficult wartime years?

Vesta was so good with paperwork – you could hand her a file of drab, seemingly dull information and she’d construct a story from it worthy of a novel.