She produced the word rather with the effect of a bad-tempered explosion.
“What did you say?” said Tommy.
Tuppence looked across the room at him.
“I said ‘books,’ ” she said.
“I see what you mean,” said Thomas Beresford.
In front of Tuppence were three large packing cases. From each of them various books had been extracted. The larger part of them were still filled with books.
“It’s incredible,” said Tuppence.
“You mean the room they take up?”
“Are you trying to put them all on the shelves?”
“I don’t know what I’m trying to do,” said Tuppence. “That’s the awkward part of it. One doesn’t know ever, exactly, what one wants to do. Oh dear,” she sighed.
“Really,” said her husband, “I should have thought that that was not at all characteristic of you. The trouble with you has always been that you knew much too well what you do want to do.”
“What I mean is,” said Tuppence, “that here we are, getting older, getting a bit—well, let’s face it—definitely rheumatic, especially when one is stretching; you know, stretching putting in books or lifting things down from shelves or kneeling down to look at the bottom shelves for something, then finding it a bit difficult to get up again.”
