Young men are sadly degenerate nowadays.
You arouse my gastronomical juices, madame.
If suicide is your idea of escape from trouble then it doesn’t very much matter what the trouble is.
It’s extraordinary, the amount of misunderstandings there are even between two people who discuss a thing quite often – both of them assuming different things and neither of them discovering the discrepancy.
Human nature is full of inconsistencies.
The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited – it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine – and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf! blow them away!
No,” said Miss Marple. “You believed what he said. It really is very dangerous to believe people. I never have for years.
The great merit of being a doctor,” said Sir Bartholomew, “is that you are not obliged to follow your own advice.
C’est une femme,” said the chef de train again. “Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength.” He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.
He’s not dead. But I have a feeling he’s bored. That’s worse.
The little grey cells, my friend, the little grey cells! They told me.
I don’t particularly want to think of your funeral because I’d much prefer to die before you do. But I mean, if I were going to your funeral, at any rate it would be an orgy of grief. I should take a lot of handkerchiefs.
Every one made such a fuss over things nowadays! They wanted injections before they had teeth pulled -they took drugs if they couldn’t sleep-they wanted easy chairs and cushions and the girls allowed their figures to slop about anyhow and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.
Oh, yes, sir.” Betty’s eyes sparkled with the pleasure of public disaster. “Wasn’t it dreadful?
I’ve always jumped on sentiment – and here I am being more sentimental than anybody. What idiots girls are! I’ve always thought so. I suppose I shall sleep with his photograph under my pillow, and dream about him all night. It’s dreadful to feel you’ve been false to your principles.
Brains. Brains. What do we really mean by the term? In your idiom you would say that Jane Wilkinson has the brains of a rabbit. That is a term of disparagement. But consider the rabbit for a moment. He exists and multiplies, does he not? That, in Nature, is a sign of mental superiority.
In all the world there is nothing so curious and so interesting and so beautiful as truth.
Hercule Poirot’s methods are his own. Order and method, and ‘the little gray cells’.
Time, thought Bobby suddenly, was a very frightening thing.
If you’ve lost, you’ve lost.