The Christie Affair Nina de Gramont Book Free Download

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The Christie Affair PDF EPUB: If you are searching for The Christie Affair PDF /EPUB for free download. Here in this post, we have shared The Christie Affair written by Nina de Gramont in both PDF and Epub Format. You can download it very easily by just clicking on the Download Now button.

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The Christie Affair Nina de Gramont Book PDF EPUB
The Christie Affair Nina de Gramont Book PDF EPUB

The Christie Affair Book PDF EPUB Details

NameThe Christie Affair
AuthorNina de Gramont
Pages309
LanguageEnglish
PublisherSt. Martin’s Press
The Christie Affair Book PDF EPUB Details

The Christie Affair Book PDF EPUB Summary

Miss Nan O’Dea penetrated the aristocratic and exclusive world of Agatha Christie and her husband, Archie, in 1925. She became a part of their lives in every way––first, both Christies. Then there’s only Archie.

Nan quickly became Archie’s mistress, drawing him away from his loyal wife, who was yearning for him to marry her. Nan’s story began long before she met Archie and Agatha.

Nan’s story begins in Ireland when she was a little child. She and the man she loved were meant to be together––until the Great War, a pandemic, and dark secrets tore them apart. Then they were separated by acts of unimaginable brutality.

What motivates someone to commit homicide? In the name of love, what will someone do? What sort of crime is impossible to forgive? Nina de Gramont’s great, timeless story delves into these and other issues.

Some Excerpts from the book The Christie Affair Book PDF EPUB

Here we have shared some excerpts from the book The Christie Affair PDF Epub.

Along time ago, in another country, I nearly killed a woman. It’s a particular feeling, the urge to murder. First comes rage, greater than any you’ve ever imagined. It takes over your body so completely it’s like a divine force, grabbing hold of your will, your limbs, your psyche. It conveys a strength you never knew you possessed. Your hands, harmless until now, rise up to squeeze another person’s life away.

There’s a joy to it. In retrospect, it’s frightening, but in the moment, it feels sweet, the way justice feels sweet. Agatha Christie had a fascination with murder. But she was a tenderhearted person.

She never wanted to kill anyone. Not for a moment. Not even me. ‘Call me Agatha,’ she always said, reaching out a slender hand. But I never would, not in those early days, no matter how many weekends I spent at one of her homes, no matter how many private moments we shared.

The familiarity didn’t feel proper, though propriety was already waning in the years after the Great War. Agatha was upper crust and elegant, but perfectly willing to dispense with manners and social mores.

Whereas I had worked too hard to learn those manners and mores to ever abandon them easily. I liked her. Back then I refused to think highly of her writing. But I always admitted to admiring her as a person.

I still admire her. Recently, when I confided this to one of my sisters, she asked me if I had regrets about what I’d done, and how much pain it had caused. ‘Of course I do,’ I told her, without hesitation.

Anyone who says I have no regrets is either a psychopath or a liar. I am neither of those things, simply adept at keeping secrets. In this way the first Mrs Christie and the second are very much alike.

We both know you can’t tell your own story without exposing someone else’s. Her whole life, Agatha refused to answer any questions about the eleven days she went missing, and it wasn’t only because she needed to protect herself.

I told ARCHIE it was the wrong time to leave his wife but I didn’t mean it. As far as I was concerned, this game had gone on far too long. It was time for me to play the winning hand. But he liked things to be his own idea, so I protested. ‘She’s too fragile,’ I said.

Agatha was still reeling from her mother’s death. ‘Clarissa died months ago,’ Archie said. ‘And no matter when I tell her it will be beastly.’ Fragile was the last word anyone would use to describe Archie. He sat at the great mahogany desk in his London office, all pomp, and power. ‘There’s no making everybody happy,’ he said.

‘Somebody has got to be unhappy and I’m tired of it being me.’ I faced him, perched on the leather chair usually reserved for financiers and businessmen. ‘Darling,’ I said. My voice would never achieve the genteel tones of Agatha’s, but by then I had at least managed to wash away the East End.

‘She needs more time to recover.’ ‘She’s a grown woman.’ ‘A person never stops needing her mother.’ ‘You’re too indulgent, Nan. Too kind.’ I smiled as if this were true. The things Archie hated most in the world were illness, weakness, sadness.

He had no patience for recuperation. As his mistress, I always maintained a cheerful demeanor. Light and airy. The perfect contrast to his not-quite-fooled and grief-stricken wife.

His face softened. A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. As the French like to say, ‘Happy people have no history.’ Archie never enquired after my past. He only wanted me now, beaming and willing. He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing what was already perfectly neat. I noticed a bit of grey at the temples.

It made him looked distinguished. There may have been a mercenary element to my relationship with Archie but that didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy him. He was tall, handsome and in love with me.

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