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Celia Fremlin

Crime & Mystery Books for Sale

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The Spider Orchid - Celia Fremlin
1977 English hardcover book club edition, BCA, London
A near fine book in fine unclipped dust jacket
No names, inscriptions or stamps etc
Tightly bound and square, clean contents and cloth
The jacket has no loss or tears
The author specialises in putting ordinary people in extraordinary situations. A fraught personal relationship, mistress young daughter and a schoolteacher leads to murder!
A nic eclean copy and the same as the first bar publisher logos
For Sale at £SOLD (approx $SOLD) *P4 - free delivery worldwide !

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Emma Lathen     Joan Fleming     Florence Ford     MG Eberhart    

DARLING, WE'RE TOGETHER at last!" cried Rita, shaking the rain from her hair and spilling a suitcase, a bulging plastic carrier bag, and a clanking tangle of metal coat-hangers into the circle of lamplight at his feet. "Together! In our very own home!" My very own home, Adrian found himself thinking uncontrollably, even while he folded her in his arms, murmuring into her ear all the appropriate words of welcome. My flat. Mine. And now the woman I love is moving into it, bag and baggage, and there is nothing in the wide world I can do to stop it, because it was my idea. "If only we could be together always!" he'd said to her, not once but dozens of times over the past four years. Had said it, and had meant it. But of course, he'd never thought for one moment that it would ever actually happen. Aloud he said: "Yes, darling, marvellous! I can still hardly believe it's really happening.. .." This, at least, was the truth. As with any major shock, his mind was refusing to take in, all at one go, the full enormity of the situation; it was letting the realisation get to him a little bit at a time, inch by inch, as much as his shrinking spirit could bear. The plastic bag of groceries? He could face that. She often brought food when she came for the evening. The suitcase? That, too, was not totally unfamiliar; they had been away together occasionally. But the coat-hangers. .. ? His eye slid past them as if they were a nasty street-accident piled up on the side of the road. He couldn't, wouldn't, just yet, take in their terrible implications—the dreadful glittering threat they posed to the very core of his comfortable, self-sufficient existence. His imagination simply blocked out, it refused, as yet, to envisage his well-pressed suits, his jackets, trousers and ties relegated to the darkest recesses of the wardrobe; squeezed back and back, in helpless retreat before

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