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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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It was 2 p.m. on the afternoon of May 7, 1915. The Lusitania had been struck by two torpedoes in succession and was sinking rapidly, while the boats were being launched with all possible speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers; others clutched their children closely to their breasts. One girl stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. She was quite young, not more than eighteen. She did not seem afraid, and her grave, steadfast eyes looked straight ahead.

 

“Or I might just have hit upon it by chance,” continued Tuppence, intoxicated with the success of truthfulness.

 

“You always were a shocking liar,” said Tuppence severely, “though you did once persuade Sister Greenbank that the doctor had ordered you beer as a tonic, but forgotten to write it on the chart. Do you remember?”

 

Tuppence went through a momentary struggle, but it was Julius’s money, and his interests must come first.

 

After a hearty meal, the girl felt inclined to pooh-pooh her fancies of half an hour before. The power of the money bribe could not fail.

 

I huddled on a few garments, and stepped out into the cool night air—still and scented, with its velvety feel. Harry beckoned me out of earshot of the house. His face looked pale and determined and his eyes were blazing.

 

Those last days on the Kilmorden seemed to pass very quickly. As we drew nearer and nearer to Cape Town, I was forced to consider carefully my future plans. There were so many people I wanted to keep an eye on. Mr. Chichester, Sir Eustace and his secretary, and—yes, Colonel Race! What was I to do about it? Naturally it was Chichester who had first claim on my attention. Indeed, I was on the point of reluctantly dismissing Sir Eustace and Mr. Pagett from their position of suspicious characters, when a chance conversation awakened fresh doubts in my mind.

 

“I can only conclude that you are a dangerous lunatic,” I said coldly.

 

I hoped that sooner or later I should be able to understand what Pagett was talking about. He went on fluently:

 

“Ah!” said the inspector. “You are the Miss Beddingfeld who gave evidence at the inquest. Certainly the man had an order in his pocket. A lot of other people may have had too—only they didn’t happen to be killed.”

 

“I can’t feel as you do, Lawrence,” he said at last. “I’m inclined to give Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to wait a bit. We don’t want any unnecessary scandal.”

 

“Never mind,” he said at last, “we won’t say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough.”

 

“That was very ingenious,” I could not help admitting. “I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous.”

 

“You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that.”

 

“No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part.”

 

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