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November 4 - November 8, 2024
raillery.
bounder.”
His rotten health, never bad enough to be really interesting, yet not good enough for him to have led the life he would have chosen.
ruefully.
People who go about talking of what they are going to do don’t usually do it.”
harridan?”
“Don’t you realize—and you an American—that everyone is born free and equal?” “They’re not,” said Cornelia with calm certainty. “My good girl, it’s part of your constitution!”
desultory
“We girls must stick together,”
She had seen plenty of drunkenness during Prohibition years.
LMAO
“You damned fool,” she said thickly, “do you think you can treat me as you have done and get away with it?”
Teutonic
“Non d’un nom d’un nom!”
“C’est de l’enfantillage,”
“Gott im Himmel,”
nicht wahr?”
B.F.
Simon Doyle was lying propped with cushions and pillows, an improvised cage over his leg. His face was ghastly in colour, the ravages of pain with shock on top of it. But the predominant expression on his face was bewilderment—the sick bewilderment of a child.
precipitate.
How then could the thief hope to get away with his booty?”
Mon cher Colonel, I tell you I saw the thought pass through Andrew Pennington’s head. ‘If only it were Doyle I had got to deal with . . .’ That is what he was thinking.” “Quite possible, I dare say,” said Race dryly, “but you’ve no evidence.”
“He talks bitterly enough. Not that I go by talk.
truculent-looking
The family finances have never suffered except by dwindling . . . you know, everything paying less interest than it used to. There’s never been anything melodramatic about our poverty. My husband left very little money, but what he left I still have, though it doesn’t yield as much as it used to yield.”
merveille!
sodden
batik
Thank you so much.” He escorted her gallantly to the door and came back wiping his brow. “What a poisonous woman! Whew! Why didn’t somebody murder her!” “It may yet happen,” Poirot consoled him.
voluble,
Prähistorische Forschung in Kleinasien—throwing
nobs.”
Mr. Ferguson got rather red. “I can stick by my friends anyway,” he said gruffly. “Well, Mr. Ferguson, I think that’s all we need for the present,” said Race. As the door closed behind Ferguson he remarked unexpectedly: “Rather a likeable young cub, really.”
“Mr. Pennington,” said Race, lighting a cigarette, “was not at all comfortable.”
🫦🫦🫦
moi qui vous parle—can
“A very stupid lie,” said Race, “and a very revealing one.” Again Poirot nodded. “But for the moment,” he said, and smiled, “we handle him with the gloves of kid, is it not so?” “That was the idea,” agreed Race. “My friend, you and I understand each other to a marvel.”
précis
N.B.—Fanthorp
conversant
companionway
Poirot said gently: “Will you come with me, Mademoiselle? Monsieur Doyle wants to see you.” She started up. Her face flushed—then paled. She looked bewildered. “Simon? He wants to see me—to see me?” He found her incredulity moving. “Will you come, Mademoiselle?” She went with him in a docile fashion, like a child, but like a puzzled child.
maudlin.
“When the sun shines you cannot see the moon,” he said. “But when the sun is gone—ah, when the sun is gone.”
“You are accustomed, Mademoiselle, to carrying your own burdens . . . But you can do that too long. The strain becomes too great. For you, Mademoiselle, the strain is becoming too great.”
I saw at once that, in spite of your carefully studied unfilial remarks, you were in reality passionately protecting her from something.
manfully.
“So silly that you should be suspected of committing a murder?” Rosalie nodded. Then she burst out again: “I’ve tried so hard to—keep everyone from knowing . . . It isn’t really her fault. She got discouraged. Her books didn’t sell anymore. People are tired of all that cheap sex stuff . . . It hurt her—it hurt her dreadfully. And so she began to—to drink. For a long time I didn’t know why she was so queer. Then, when I found out, I tried to—to stop it.
“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.”
I’m afraid I’ve been rude to you often.” “La politesse, it is not necessary between friends.”
🥹🥹🥹
PEOPLE CREPT INTO the dining saloon by ones and twos in a very subdued manner. There seemed a general feeling that to sit down eagerly to food displayed an unfortunate heartlessness. It was with an almost apologetic air that one passenger after another came and sat down at their tables.
“Monsieur Poirot may find out.” “That old mountebank? He won’t find out anything. He’s all talk and moustaches.” “Well, Tim,” said Mrs. Allerton. “I dare say everything you say is true, but, even if it is, we’ve got to go through with it, so we might as well make up our minds to it and go through with it as cheerfully as we can.”
