The Mysterious Affair at Styles (Hercule Poirot, #1)

by Agatha Christie

I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. 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.

I always lacked words for girls with almond shape eyes. This summizes it.

Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”

“A good conscience makes a sound sleeper,”

“Instinct is a marvellous thing,” mused Poirot. “It can neither be explained nor ignored.”

I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life—I loved it.” There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days. “Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire.” She shuddered. “You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad.”

I have personally experienced, this monotony. It sucks.

“Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend,”

Poirot 101.