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Plymouth, Gwenda thought, as she moved forward obediently in the queu for Passports and Customs, was probably not the best of England.
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Crime is terribly revealing. Try and vary your methods as you will, your tastes, your habits, your attitude of mind, and your soul is revealed by your actions.
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'It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,' she explained.
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'Here are my roses. Like ’em?' 'They’re beautiful,' said Laura politely. 'On the whole,' said Mr. Baldock, 'I prefer them to human beings. They don’t last as long for one thing.'
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God bless my soul, woman, the more personal you are the better! This is a story of human beings - not dummies! Be personal - be prejudiced - be catty - be anything you please! Write the thing your own way. We can always prune out the bits that are libellous afterwards!
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Take this Hercules - this hero! Hero, indeed! What was he but a large muscular creature of low intelligence and criminal tendencies!
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The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world.
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Children and one’s social inferiors never know when to say good-bye. One has to say it for them.
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These little things are very significant.
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Without interest (hers not the type to wonder why!) but with perfect efficiently, Miss Lemon had fulfilled her task.
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I felt that the murderer was in the room. Sitting with us - listening. one of us
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It would be difficult Bland thought, to forget Hercule Poirot, and this not entirely for complimentary reasons.
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Words had become to him a means of obscuring facts - not of revealing them. He was an adept in the art of the useful phrase - that is to say the phrase that falls soothingly on the ear and is quite empty of meaning.
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Last time I had my hands on you, you felt like a bird - struggling to escape. You'll never escape now...
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How true is the saying that man was forced to invent work in order to escape the strain of having to think.
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'Nothing', I said sadly. 'They are two delightful women!' 'And neither of them is for you?' finished Poirot. 'Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows?'
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There is always something about conscious tact that is very irritating.
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Two is enough for a secret.
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Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all.
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I don't pretend to be an author or to know anything about writing. I'm doing this simply because Dr Reilly asked me to, and somehow when Dr Reilly asks you to do a thing you don't like to refuse.
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'The English are very stupid,' said Poirot. 'They think that they can deceive anyone but that no one can deceive them.'
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Even the sensible and the competent have been given tongues by le bon Dieu - and they do not always employ their tongues wisely.
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They have, all of them, such wonderful good manners. Not taught good manners - the natural thing. I could never have believed till I came here that natural courtesy could be such a wonderful - such a positive thing.
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I have a certain experience of the way people tell lies.