Lawyers Never Go To Law, Do They?

One Of Us In This Very Room Is In Fact The Murderer.

The Urge To Write One's Autobiography, So I Have Been Told, Overtakes Everyone Sooner Or Later.

Vous Eprouves Trop D'emotion, Hastings, It Affects Your Hands And Your Wits. Is That A Way To Fold A Coat? And Regard What You Have Done To My Pyjamas. If The Hairwash Breaks What Will Befall Them?' 'good Heavens, Poirot,' I Cried, 'this Is A Matter Of Life And Death. What Does It Matter What Happens To Our Clothes?' 'you Have No Sense Of Proportion Hastings. We Cannot Catch A Train Earlier Than The Time That It Leaves, And To Ruin One's Clothes Will Not Be The Least Helpful In Preventing A Murder.

I Looked At Her. Sheila Was My Girl--the Girl I Wanted--and Wanted For Keeps. But It Wasn't Any Use Having Illusions About Her. Sheila Was A Liar And Probably Always Would Be A Liar. It Was Her Way Of Fighting For Survival--the Quick Easy Glib Denial. It Was A Child's Weapon--and She'd Probably Never Got Out Of Using It. If I Wanted Sheila, I Must Accept Her As She Was--be At Hand To Prop Up The Weak Places. We've All Got Our Weak Places. Mine Were Different From Sheila's, But They Were There.

I'm Not Often Bored,' I Assured Her. "life's Not Long Enough For That.