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The Constant Gardener: A Novel [Paperback]

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  • Category: Books (Fiction)
  • Author:  le Carre, John
  • Author:  le Carre, John
  • ISBN-10:  0743262433
  • ISBN-10:  0743262433
  • ISBN-13:  9780743262439
  • ISBN-13:  9780743262439
  • Publisher:  Scribner
  • Publisher:  Scribner
  • Pages:  496
  • Pages:  496
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Binding:  Paperback
  • Pub Date:  01-Jun-2004
  • Pub Date:  01-Jun-2004
  • SKU:  0743262433-11-MING
  • SKU:  0743262433-11-MING
  • Item ID: 100631614
  • List Price: $19.00
  • Seller: ShopSpell
  • Ships in: 2 business days
  • Transit time: Up to 5 business days
  • Delivery by: Nov 28 to Nov 30
  • Notes: Brand New Book. Order Now.

The Constant Gardeneris a magnificent exploration of the new world order byNew York Timesbestselling author John le Carré, one of the most compelling and elegant storytellers of our time.

The novel opens in northern Kenya with the gruesome murder of Tessa Quayle -- young, beautiful, and dearly beloved to husband Justin. When Justin sets out on a personal odyssey to uncover the mystery of her death, what he finds could make him not only a suspect among his own colleagues, but a target for Tessa's killers as well.

A master chronicler of the betrayals of ordinary people caught in political conflict, John le Carré portrays the dark side of unbridled capitalism as only he can. InThe Constant Gardenerhe tells a compelling, complex story of a man elevated through tragedy, as Justin Quayle -- amateur gardener, aging widower, and ineffectual bureaucrat -- discovers his own natural resources and the extraordinary courage of the woman he barely had time to love.The Constant Gardener

1


The news hit the British High Commission in Nairobi at nine-thirty on a Monday morning. Sandy Woodrow took it like a bullet, jaw rigid, chest out, smack through his divided English heart. He was standing. That much he afterwards remembered. He was standing and the internal phone was piping. He was reaching for something, he heard the piping so he checked himself in order to stretch down and fish the receiver off the desk and say, “Woodrow.” Or maybe, “Woodrow here.” And he certainly barked his name a bit, he had that memory for sure, of his voice sounding like someone else’s, and sounding stroppy: “Woodrow here,” his own perfectly decent name, but without the softening of his nickname Sandy, and snapped out as if he hated it, because the lă&

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