You have the clear brain. Yes, one cannot go back over the past. One must accept things as they are. And sometimes, Madame, that is all one can do – accept the consequences of one’s past deeds.
The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small –.
It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage.
The mirror crack’d from side to side: ‘The doom has come upon me,’ cried the Lady of Shalott.
Out flew the web and floated wide; The Mirror crack’d from side to side; ‘The curse has come upon me,’ cried The Lady of Shalott.
Queer, thought Henrietta, how things can seep into you without your knowing it...
What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn’t somebody murder her!” “It may yet happen,” Poirot consoled him.
When everybody about you is in a continual state of agitation, it develops in you a desire to go to the opposite extreme.
I’ve been gossiping a little. In shops – and waiting for buses. Old ladies are supposed to be inquisitive. Yes, one can pick up quite a lot of local news.
I didn’t get to that pudding in time. It had boiled dry. I think it’s really all right – just a little scorched perhaps. In case it tasted rather nasty I thought I would open a bottle of those raspberries I put up last summer. They seem to have a bit of mould on top but they say nowadays that that doesn’t matter. It’s really rather good for you – practically penicillin.
If you come to a Vicarage, you ought to be prepared to find a Vicar.
No, no, my dear boy, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s very easy to kill – so long as no one suspects you. And you see, the person in question is just the last person anyone would suspect!
Because people like living, don’t they? So do flies. Even if you’re old and in pain and can just crawl out in the sun. Julian says those people like living even more than young strong people do. It’s harder, he says, for them to die, the struggle’s greater. I like living myself – not just being happy and enjoying myself and having a good time. I mean living – waking up and feeling, all over me, that I’m there – ticking over.
You are a philosopher mademoiselle. This implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself from useless emotion.
Married a man who wasn’t much good. I’d say she never had much judgment when it came to men. Some women haven’t. They fall for anyone who tells them a hard-luck story. Always convinced that all the man needs is proper female understanding. That, once married to her, he’ll pull up his socks and make a go of life! But of course that type of man never does.
No, my death should take place in a blaze of excitement. I would live before I died.
We passed a very pleasant evening, though I made the slight mistake of taking Poirot to a crook play. There is one piece of advice I offer to all my readers. Never take a soldier to a military play, a sailor to a naval play, a Scotsman to a Scottish play, a detective to a thriller – and an actor to any play whatsoever! The shower of destructive criticism in each case is somewhat devastating.
Paeonies,” said Miss Marple as she rose from table, “are most unaccountable. Either they do – or they don’t do. But if they do establish themselves, they are with you for life, so to speak, and really most beautiful varieties nowadays.
We never know the whole man, though sometimes, in quick flashes, we know the true man.
I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere.