Curtain

Everyone is a potential murderer-in everyone there arises from time to time the wish to kill-though not the will to kill.

Underneath the quarrels,the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everyday life, a real and true affection can exist. Married life, I mused, as I went to bed, was a curious thing.

Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation wrought by age. My poor friend. I have described him many times. Now to convey to you the difference. Crippled with arthritis, he propelled himself about in a wheelchair. His once plump frame had fallen in. He was a thin little man now. His face was lined and wrinkled. His moustache and hair, and hair, it is true, were still of a jet black colour, but candidly, though I would not for the world have hurt his feelings by saying so to him, this was a mistake. There comes a moment when hair dye is only too painfully obvious. There had been a time when I had been surprised to learn that the blackness of Poirot's hair came out of a bottle. But now the theatricality was apparent and merely created the impression that he wore a wig and had adorned his upper lip to amuse children!

That’s the depressing part of places like this. Guest houses run by broken-down gentlepeople. They’re full of failures—of people who have never got anywhere and never will get anywhere, of people who—who have been defeated and broken by life, of people who are old and tired and finished.

I will not look through keyholes,” I interrupted hotly. Poirot closed his eyes. “Very well, then. You will not look through keyholes. You will remain the English gentleman and someone will be killed.

I was tired of this silly joking about my 'speaking countenance'. I could keep a secret as well as anyone. Poirot had always persisted in the humiliating belief that I am a transparent character and that anyone can read what is passing in my mind.

Open your mouth and shut your eyes and see what the fairies will send you—

Curious, sometimes, how one’s thoughts seemed to swing in a kaleidoscope. It happened to me now. A bewildering shuffling and reshuffling of memories, of events. Then the mosaic settled into its true pattern.

Your daughter's a very enthusiastic scientific worker.” “I know,” I said rather disconsolately. “It worries me sometimes. It doesn't seem natural, if you know what I mean. I feel she ought to be - more human - more keen on having a good time. Amuse herself - fall in love with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one's fling - not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn't natural. In our young days we were having fun - flirting - enjoying ourselves - you know.

És végül a pisztolylövés. Az egyetlen hibám. Halántékon is lőhettem volna. De képtelen voltam rászánni magam, hogy ilyen aszimmetrikus, hebehurgya munkát végezzek. Nem, legyen szimmetrikus a lövés, pontosan a homloka közepébe...

The darkest day, lived till tomorrow, will have passed away?