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January 15 - January 20, 2025
Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success.
Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman’s that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised
body—all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.
The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching
evil.
Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small—it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”
The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.
A “man of method” was, in Poirot’s estimation, the highest praise that could be bestowed on any individual.
Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”
“What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.”
“Mon ami,” replied Poirot gravely, “when you find that people are not telling you the truth—look out!
“Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend,” observed Poirot philosophically. “You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.”
Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!
