One, Two, Buckle My Shoe (Hercule Poirot, #23)

by Agatha Christie

He was such an unemotional man. He was so very normal. So essentially British.

There are certain humiliating moments in the lives of the greatest of men. It has been said that no man is a hero to his valet. To that may be added that few men are heroes to themselves at the moment of visiting their dentist.

A momentary resentment rose in Poirot at this offhand coupling of names. Mr. Morley was a good dentist, yes, but there were other good dentists in London. There was only one Hercule Poirot.

Hahahaha xD

a very peculiar looking foreigner came out of the house just as I arrived.” Japp coughed. Poirot said with dignity: “That was I, Madame.”

XD

“Liars,” he said, “are neither so circumstantial nor so inconsequential.”

Just hanging about is so bad for a man.

Poirot sighed. But he did not argue. He had heard many hundreds of women produce that same argument, with the same blithe belief in the redeeming power of a woman’s love. Once in a thousand times, he supposed, cynically, it might be true.

“I am very odd. That is to say, I am methodical, orderly and logical—and I do not like distorting facts to support a theory—that, I find—is unusual!”

“I am not concerned with nations, Monsieur. I am concerned with the lives of private individuals who have the right not to have their lives taken from them.”