Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot, #22)

by Agatha Christie

I told him the other day that in a decently civilized state, all there would be to do would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it, and he’d finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. ‘And if you’d any courage, Doctor,’ I said, ‘you’d do it, anyway!’”

I find most of the human race extraordinarily repulsive. They probably reciprocate this feeling.

According to her, family life is all wrong, and children should be brought up by the state.

“That, I fear, will not be easy.” Poirot rose and made a gesture. “Everything,” he said, “is easy to Hercule Poirot.”