You are not the happy, unthinking child you have always appeared to be, accepting everything at its face value. You are not just one of the women of the household. You are Renisenb who wants to think for herself, who wonders about other people.
You are lucky, Renisenb. You have found the happiness that is inside everybody’s own heart. To most women, happiness means coming and going, busied over small affairs. It is care for one’s children and laughter and conversation and quarrels with other women and alternate love and anger with a man. It is made up of small things strung together like beads on a string.
All life is a jest, Imhotep – and it is death who laughs last. Do you not hear it at every feast? Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow you die.
Ladies tell their nurses things in a sudden burst of confidence, and then, afterwards, they feel uncomfortable about it and wish they hadn’t! It’s only human nature.
Women are fiends-absolute fiends.
After all, perhaps dirt isn’t really so unhealthy as one is brought up to believe.
In moments of great stress, the mind focuses itself upon some quite unimportant matter which is remembered long afterwards with the utmost fidelity, driven in, as it were, by the mental stress of the moment. It may be some quite irrelevant detail, like the pattern of a wallpaper, but it will never be forgotten.
But after a while they stopped talking about her and discussed instead who was going to win the Grand National. For, as Mr Ferguson was saying at that minute in Luxor, it is not the past that matters but the future.
The longer the time that has elapsed, the more things fall into proportion. One sees them in their true relationship to one another.
You seem to know a hell of a lot about everything, you little foreign cock duck.
To get at the cause for a thing, we must study the effect.
In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy.
Are you really a detective, then?” “At your service, Madame.” “I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through Yugo-Slavia – not until one got to Italy.” “I am not a Yugo-Slavian detective, Madame. I am an international detective.” “You belong to the League of Nations?” “I belong to the world, Madame,” said Poirot dramatically.
Yes. She rebelled, I suppose, against being made to live in the past. After all, there’s a time for everything. You can’t sit in the house with the blinds down forever.
Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope – the thing changes entirely in aspect.
To cry at will is not an easy accomplishment.
I congratulate you on having such a unique and beautiful problem.
What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds out.
I know that in books it is always the most unlikely person. But I never find that rule applies in real life. There it is so often the obvious that is true.
Justice is, after all, in the hands of men and men are fallible.