A small, shrivelled, bird-like woman, who might have been thirty-five and who might have been ninety, clad in a blue and sulphur jumper like the plumage of a macaw, came forward with that air of easy condescension which is usually achieved by royalty only, and fixed the vicar with an eagle eye. 'Am I addressing the spiritual adviser of this parish?' she enquired. Her voice was startling in that it belied her whole appearance. Here was no bird-like twitter nor harsh parrot cry, but a mellifluous utterance, rich and full, and curiously, definitely, superlatively attractive.
Mrs Bradley, the heroine of
Gladys Mitchell's 1929
Gladys Mitchell's 1929
and many, many more.
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