The Hollow

What alchemy there was in human beings.

I, Hercule Poirot, am not amused.

If I were dead, the first thing you'd do, with the tears streaming down your face, would be to start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.

And suddenly one of those moments of intense happiness came to her--a sense of the loveliness of the world--of her own intense enjoyment of that world.

He did not know- he simply did not know. But he felt he ought to know.

And suddenly, with a terrific shock, with that feeling as of blurring on a cinematograph screen before the picture comes to focus, Hercule Poirot realized that this artificially set scene had a point of reality...

...the real tragedy of life was that you got what you wanted...

I love autumn. It’s so much richer than spring.

You took thoughts, choosing them out of your store, and then, not dwelling on them, you let them slip through the fingers of your mind, never clutching at them, never dwelling on them, no concentration…just letting them drift gently past.

Where am I myself, the whole man, the true man? Where am I with God’s mark upon my brow?

I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood; Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-read heath, The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers "Death".

What made Lady Angkatell dangerous, he thought, was the fact that those intuitive, wild guesses of hers might be often right. With a careless (seemingly careless?) word she built up a picture - and if parts of the picture was right, wouldn't you, in spite of yourself, believe in the other half of the picture?...

love.” Poirot put his hand gently on her shoulder. He said: “But you are one of those who can live with a sword in their hearts—who can go on and smile—” Henrietta looked up at him. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “That’s a little melodramatic,

Where am I myself, the whole man, the true man? Where am I with God’s mark upon my brow?’ Did