Everybody always knows something," said Adam, "even if it's something they don't know they know.
When you find that people are not telling you the truth---look out!
They tried to be too clever---and that was their undoing.
There hung about her the restrained energy of a whiplash.
Sitting here with one's knitting, one just sees the facts. -"The Blood-Stained Pavement
I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty---to one's friends and one's family and one's caste.
Unless you are good at guessing, it is not much use being a detective.
What's wrong with my proposition?" Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal-I do not like your face, M. Ratchett.
It had come about exactly in the way things happened in books.
Hasting - There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself.
Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?” “Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda, staring. “Yes, you say that, but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes – and destroys one’s illusions.” “I’d rather have it all the same.” said Rhoda. “So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.” Mrs. Oliver; Rhoda Dawes
And yet," said Poirot, "suppose an accident-" "Ah, no, my friend-" "From your point of view it would be regrettable, I agree. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together - by death.
You agree - I'm sure you agree that beauty is the only thing worth living for.
Self-preservation's a man's first duty. And natives don't mind dying, you know. They don't feel about it as Europeans do.
There is no question of defence. I have always acted in accordance with the dictates of my conscience. I have nothing with which to reproach myself.
She didn't give George any too easy a time when she was alive. She was one of those semi-invalids – I believe she had really something wrong with her, but whatever it was she played it for all it was worth. She was capricious, exacting, unreasonable. She complained from morning to night. George was expected to wait on her, hand and foot and everything he did was always wrong and he got cursed for it. Most men, I'm fully convinced, would have hit her with a hatchet long ago.
"I think you're begging the question," said Haydock, "and I can see looming ahead one of those terrible exercises in probability where six men have white hats and six men have black hats and you have to work it out by mathematics how likely it is that the hats will get mixed up and in what proportion. If you start thinking about things like that, you would go round the bend. Let me assure you of that!"
Authors were shy, unsociable creatures, atoning for their lack of social aptitude by inventing their own companions and conversations.
Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.
What an absurdity to go and bury oneself in South America, where they are always having revolutions.
And if you cast down an idol, there's nothing left.
I have a certain experience of the way people tell lies.
I've got an uncle myself. Nobody should be held responsible for their uncles. Nature's little throwbacks - that's how I look at it.
Wonderful things, horses. Never know what they will do, or won't do.
The whole thing was like a nine-month ocean voyage to which you never got acclimatized.
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