“Pauvre petite,” said Poirot. She turned on him vehemently. “Don’t be sorry for me. Don’t be kind. It’s easier if you’re not.” She sighed—a long heartrending sigh. “I’m so tired . . . I’m so deadly, deadly tired.” “I know,” said Poirot. “People think I’m awful. Stuck-up and cross and bad-tempered. I can’t help it. I’ve forgotten how to be—to be nice.” “That is what I said to you; you have carried your burden by yourself too long.”
