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She professed no religious faith and was probably instrumental in turning her husband from distinct evangelism in the s towards agnosticism. She was buried in Blewbury in a non-religious ceremony. Her final novel, A Thief in the Night , was published posthumously in She was survived by a nephew, Peter MacTaggart. In the United States, her novels were published under the name E. Ferrars , her US publishers assuring her that "the 'X' would 'do it'". Ferrars was in fact her mother's maiden name.

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Though the majority of Ferrars's works are standalone novels, she wrote several series. Late in her career, she began writing about a semi-estranged married couple, Virginia and Felix Freer, and a retired botanist , Andrew Basnett. Several of her short stories also feature an elderly detective called Jonas P.

Her extraordinary output owes a great deal to considerable self-discipline and diligent method.

Her plots were worked out in detail in hand-written notebooks before being filled out in typed manuscript; she said that they were worked backwards from the denouement. Like every writer, she based characters and situations on people she knew and things she had seen in real life. She travelled with her husband when his academic career required, for example to Adelaide where he was a visiting professor at the University of South Australia , and on holidays specially to Madeira , which they loved.

Her books are written so that readers are spared from violence or extreme unpleasantness. Her characters are from backgrounds who do not expect crime or violence to impinge on their lives.


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They are educated, and often work in academic or artistic fields. Female characters are independent and "politely feminist," [6]. Articles "No Danger to Detectives! Ferrars and starring George C. Scott, Kraft Television Theatre Aug. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. The Independent. Radcliffe Gothic novels of the twentieth century: an annotated bibliography. Who's who in crime and mystery writing.

It has now been nominated for the Sue Feder Macavity. For ten years Catriona lived on a ramshackle farm in a beautiful valley in Galloway, running in the hills, swimming in the rivers and gardening in spite of the wind. The new farm, however, is just as ramshackle as the last. Never mind Romney or Obama, noir or cozy, Wars or Trek. If you really want to get a bead on someone the question is: cat or dog? I got a sixth share in my first cat when I was five: Tabitha. They all came as kittens and lived out their lives. Poppy died in front of the Rayburn at fifteen, Clive met a car at two.

Dennis and Rachel are six and coping well with rattlesnakes, black widows and coyotes. My detective, Dandy Gilver , is a dog person. She certainly loves her Dalmatian more than she loves her husband. Her children? But a dog-lover and a cat-lover? Upper-class Brits are always nuts about their dogs. I think a lot of them probably do prefer the puppy to the hubby. And they really do send the kids away to school and keep the dogs at home, so who knows.

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My reason for preferring cats is easy. Dogs might herd sheep and save mountaineers, but cats do endless work around the house. From wrapping birthday presents:. Cats have fluffy tummies. Dogs smell.

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People say cats smell. What they usually mean is that litterboxes smell. But if you had a litterbox it would smell too. Cats love who they love.


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Dennis loves everyone. Rachel loves me, the undergardener a bit and almost my mum. Dogs love whoever has the bacon bites. Where should I be? Tell me what to think! Where are you going? Do you still love me?

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Are you going away? Alone, alone, alone, aloooooooone. You came back! You saved me! You love me! What will I do? I love you, you know. Perhaps not. Consider the earth. And he has somewhat grown on me. I always liked him. Dennis, Harry and the undergardener all looked up. But only one of them wagged his tail. And there was the answer.

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Posted by Donna Andrews Permalink Comments 9. By Elaine Viets Your family tree may go way back, but mine has more mileage. Our tree is a ficus. When we bought a house in St. Louis, it sat in the living room, daring us to move it. The six-foot tree stayed by the window. When we moved to Washington DC, the Missouri ficus was crammed in a moving van for miles. It survived another long haul from DC to Fort Lauderdale — miles.

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The movers cursed that ficus as they lugged it up to our third-floor Florida apartment. It shed most of its leaves during a two-year exile at our tiny beach apartment. But when we moved to our Fort Lauderdale condo, the ficus grew like a weed. This winter, it was eight feet tall and eight feet around.