While away on our long weekend, Robin and I read from G. K. Chesterton's Father Brown mystery tales. It is our first foray into the writings of this distinguished "man of letters" a century ago in England. A couple remarkable sentences:
The moon with her scimitar had now ripped up and rolled away all the storm-wrack ("The Secret Garden").
The menu . . . was written in a sort of super-French employed by cooks, but quite unintelligible to Frenchmen ("The Queer Feet").
He had never done anything - not even anything wrong ("The Queer Feet").