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For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony. 'Good heavens Poirot!' I cried. 'What is the matter? Are you taken ill?' 'No, no,' he gasped. 'It is - it is - that I have an idea!'
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It really is very dangerous to believe people. I never have for years.
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He is like a cat. And all cats are thieves.
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I have no pity for myself either. So let it be veronal. But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable marrows.
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Fear is incomplete knowledge.
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John, forgive me... for what I can't help doing.
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Weak and kindly people are often very treacherous. And if they’ve got a grudge against life it saps the little moral strength that they may posses.
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The rottenness comes from within.
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Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory - let the theory go.
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The tear rose in Miss Marple's eyes. Succeeding pity, there came anger - anger against a heartless killer. And then, displacing both these emotions, there came a surge of triumph - the triumph some specialist might feel who has successfully reconstructed an extinct animal from a fragment of jawbone and a couple of teeth.
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But when investing money, keep, I beg of you, Hastings, strictly to the conservative.
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'I have made my choice, Hori. I will share my life with you for good or evil, until death comes...' With his arms round her, with the sudden new sweetness of his face against hers, she was filled with an exultant richness of living.
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It was the technique of a man who selected thoughts as one might select pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. In due course they would be reassembled together so as to make a clear and coherent picture. At the moment the important thing was the selection, the separation.
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‘Yes, my friend,’ he said. ‘It is so easy to be an American - here in Paris! A nasal voice - the chewing gum - the little goatee - the horned-rimmed spectacles - all the appurtenances of the stage American…’
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They are so busy knocking that they do not notice that the door is open!
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I have the little idea, my friend, that this is a crime very carefully planned and staged. It is a far-sighted, long-headed crime. It is not - how shall I express it? - a Latin crime. It is a crime that shows traces of a cool, resourceful, deliberate brain - I think an Anglo-Saxon brain.
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Murder isn’t - it really isn’t - a thing to tamper with lightheartedly.
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Let us think only of the good days that are to come.
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I think perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to read aloud Gibbon to me in the evenings, because if it’s nice and hot by the fire, there’s something about Gibbon that does, rather, make you go to sleep.
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'Yes, Mr. Lee.' Superintendent Sugden did not wast time on explanations. 'What’s all this?'
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It’s not impossible my dear. It’s just a very remarkable coincidence - and remarkable coincidences do happen.
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'I am not very clever about Americanisms - and I understand they change very quickly.'
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'Aha? You have been very clever, madame.' 'No, I haven’t really. It was a pure accident. I mean, I walked into a small café place and there the girl was, just sitting there.' 'Ah. You had the good fortune then. That is just as important.'
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'I agree with you. It is here a family affair. It is a poison that works in the blood - it is intimate - it is deep-seated. There is here, I think, hate and knowledge…'