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It is odd, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial.
‘Surely if a woman committed a crime like murder, she’d be sufficiently cold-blooded to enjoy the fruits of it without any weak-minded sentimentality such as repentance.’
I told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the more firm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what she had said. But it is all wrong that Caroline should arrive at the truth simply by a kind of inspired guesswork. I wasn’t going to encourage that sort of thing.
Women, in my experience, if they once reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.
But I sincerely hoped that throwing large vegetables over walls was not our new [18] The Murder of roger Ackroyd friend’s hobby. Such a habit could hardly endear him to us as a neighbour.
‘The chains of habit. We work to attain an object, and the object gained, we find that what we miss is the daily toil.
Clearly a retired hairdresser. Who knows the secrets of human nature better than a hairdresser?
The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of someone’s voice that I knew, but whose it was I could not think.
The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it.
Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details, without knowing that they are doing so. Their subconscious mind adds these little things together—and they call the result intuition.
It is a pity that a doctor is precluded by his profession from being able sometimes to say what he really thinks.
‘Do him no harm,’ said Caroline. ‘Never worry about what you say to a man. They’re so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it’s unflattering.’
‘Me, I know everything. Remember that.’
