'Hell knows no fury like a womanizer scorned,' he said lightly. 'Who told you?''Mrs Makepiece told the whole village shop. Here the snow had settled in roots of trees, in the crevices of walls, and in six-foot drifts anywhere it could find shelter from yesterday's blizzard. He was in an exocet mood.
Remembering that Tony had the French co-production people over for the weekend, who were probably Mon Dieu-ing over Monica's fading stretch of daffodils at that moment, she'd hung up. ''She'd better come and work at the Bar Sinister,' said Bas. Four plump boiling chickens, carrots and onions were already simmering in a huge pan on the Aga. I wish you'd read that play.
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