Who Could That Be at This Hour?
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blizzardo219 thinks this title is suitable for 10 years and over
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white_sheep_143 thinks this title is suitable for 10 years and over
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Ventus279 thinks this title is suitable for All Ages
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To be a success in Snicket’s line of work it’s important to know how to ask the right questions. And this is a problem since Snicket finds it difficult doing precisely that. He was supposed to meet his contact in the city. Instead, he finds himself whisked away to the country to a dying town called Stain’d-by-the-Sea. Once a bustling harbor, the town’s water was removed leaving behind a creepy seaweed forest and an ink business that won’t be around much longer. With his incompetent mentor S. Theodora Markson he’s there to solve the mystery of a stolen statue. Never mind that the statue wasn’t stolen, its owners don’t care who has it, and their client isn’t even a real person. When Snicket finds a girl looking for her father and learns the name of the insidious Hangfire things start to get interesting, not to mention dangerous. Can multiple mysteries be solved even if you keep following the wrong paths? Snicket’s about to find out.
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Over City was a sign that read Police Station and over Hall was a sign that read Library. I walked up the steps and made the sensible choice... pg. 73
They say in every library there is a single book that can answer the question that burns like a fire in the mind.--Dashiell Qwerty-Sub Librarian p. 75
"I'm reminded of a book my father used to read me," she said. "A bunch of elves and things get into a huge war over a piece of jewelry that everybody wants but nobody can wear."
"I never liked that kind of book," I replied. "There's always a wizard who's very powerful but not very helpful."
She stood and ran quickly up the spiral staircase, her shoes making the sort of racket that might give you mother a headache, if you have that sort of mother.
I stopped looking at her typewriter and looked at her eyes. Their color was pretty interesting, too—a dark gray, like they’d once been black but somebody had washed them or perhaps had made her cry for a long time.
He was younger than I think of librarians as being, younger than the father of anyone I knew, and he had the hairstyle one gets if one is attacked by a scissors-carrying maniac and lives to tell the tale.
"Adults never tell children anything."
"Children never tell adults anything either," I said. "The children of this world and the adults of this world are in entirely separate boats and only drift near each other when we need a ride from someone or when someone needs us to wash our hands."