Don't you know, you idiot, that that is what every fool of a woman says about her child?Miss Bulstrode's thoughts.

You've a pretty good nerve,' said Ratchett. 'Will twenty thousand dollars tempt you?'It will not.'If you're holding out for more, you won't get it. I know what a thing's worth to me.'I, also M. Ratchett.'What's wrong with my proposition?'Poirot rose. 'If you will forgive me for being personal - I do not like your face, M. Ratchett,' he said.

Mr. Satterthwaite looked cheered. Suddenly an idea struck him. His jaw fell. 'My goodness,' he cried, 'I've only just realized it! That rascal, with his poisoned cocktail! Anyone might have drunk it! It might have been me!'There is an even more terrible possibility that you have not considered,' said Poirot. 'Eh?'It might have been me,' said Hercule Poirot.

At the small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction - it fascinated rather than repelled.

There was only one thing about his own appearance which really pleased Hercule Poirot, and that was the profusion of his moustaches, and the way they responded to grooming and treatment and trimming. They were magnificent. He knew of nobody else who had any moustache half as good.

Sensationalism dies quickly, fear is long-lived.

Trains are relentless things, aren't they, Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered and die, but they go on just the same. I am talking nonsense, but you know what I mean.'Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train, Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good thing that that is so.'Why?'Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle.''Journey's end in lovers meeting.'' Lenox laughed. 'That is not going to be true for me.'Yes--yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know. Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it.'The whistle of the engine came again.'Trust the train, Mademoiselle,' murmured Poirot again. 'And trust Hercule Poirot. He knows.

Oh! Do not excite yourself. Shall I say that he interested me because he was trying to grow a mustache and as yet the result is poor.' Poirot stroked his own magnificent mustache tenderly. 'It is an art,' he murmured, 'the growing of the mustache! I have sympathy for all who attempt it.

There is at Christmas time a great deal of hypocrisy, honourable hypocrisy, hypocrisy undertaken pour le bon motif, c'est entendu, but nevertheless hypocrisy!

Oh please tell me we're not doing the Poirot thing again — the suspects in the library with the candlestick or whatever'.Max looked at him [DCI Cotton]. 'Fruitcake in this case. And what would you prefer? A car chase? It’s the most efficient way to flush out a killer, as Dame Agatha Christie well knew.