The Labours of Hercules (Hercule Poirot, #27)

by Agatha Christie

Hercule Poirot felt that familiar aching of the jaw when one longs to yawn and politeness forbids.

She took disaster as it should be taken, dealing with it competently and thereby reducing it almost to insignificance.

‘You are by way of being a philosopher, M. Poirot.’ ‘I have arrived at the age of reflection, Monsieur.’

‘Is he then an unhappy man?’ Poirot said: ‘So unhappy that he has forgotten what happiness means. So unhappy that he does not know he is unhappy.’ The nun said softly: ‘Ah, a rich man…’ Hercule Poirot said nothing–for he knew there was nothing to say…

But Fate itself is not more inexorable than the behaviour of two escalators moving in an inverse direction.