Why does being a gentleman have to make certain body parts ache so badly?

The sun was just rising when Mitch finally arrived at his aunt and uncle's place after a hefty delay on the flight home, and as he flopped face down on their sofa in exhaustion, he wondered who the lucky - yet noisy - bastards were up the hall having what sounded like really hot morning sex.

By sunrise, all traces of blood was gone, the scent and sight of death had been scrubbed away, the intoxicating rush of a fresh killing was still pounding through Dexter's veins and everything in his world was right again.

Her friends and family were spending more time in hospital than Tyra cared for, and the same boring old beige walls would do her head in if she didn't have Silas by her side.

Why the shitting hell did I come to London again?