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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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Practice and improve your writing style below

Below, I have some random texts from popular authors. All you have to do is, spend some time daily, and type these lines in the box below. And, eventually, your brain picks the writing style, and your own writing style improves!

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Come at once. Uncle Harrington murdered last night. Bring good detective if you can, but do come.

 

“Ah, yes—I was going to ask you what you thought about that beard?”

 

“He’s the goods, M. Poirot! If he says so, there’s something in it. And I hardly noticed the woman! I don’t know that I can go so far as arresting her, but I’ll have her watched. We’ll go up right away and take another look at her.”

 

All this I added to my report. A wire from Poirot arrived while I was at breakfast the following morning:

 

We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us.

 

“No, M. Poirot, it is an affair of the golf course. It shows that there is here to be a ‘bunkair,’ as you call it.”

 

“That’s real nice of you. I’ll tell her what you say. But I don’t fancy we’ll meet again. You’ve been very good to me on the journey, especially after I cheeked you as I did. But what your face expressed first thing is quite true. I’m not your kind. And that brings trouble—I know that well enough. …”

 

“Poirot,” I said, “do you remember how we arrived here that first day? And were met by the news of M. Renauld’s murder?”

 

“Ah, that reminds me of another point,” said M. Hautet. “Did M. Renauld take you into his confidence at all as to the dispositions of his will?”

 

Though slightly surprised at the request, Mrs. Renauld held them out to him. Round each of them was a cruel red mark where the cords had bitten into the flesh. As he examined them, I fancied that a momentary flicker of excitement I had seen in his eyes disappeared.

 

“What in hell are you doing here?” he demanded, staring.

 

“It was not your master, Mr. Carrington, by any chance?”

 

“And how are you, monsieur? No bad feeling between us, though we have got our different ways of looking at things. How are the ‘little gray cells,’ eh? Going strong?”

 

“Old chap’s getting on in years,” he observed beneath his breath to me. “That wont do for us young folk,” he said aloud.

 

“Is there nothing to account for your daughter’s sudden change of plan?”

 

 

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