Agatha Christie: Cytaty po angielsku (strona 15)

“Pilar sat squeezed up against the window and thought how very odd the English smelt.”

“It’s so messy bleeding like a pig.”

“The reason he liked attending rich patients rather than poor ones was the he could exercise his active imagination in prescribing for their ailments.”

“But when investing money, keep, I beg of you, Hastings, strictly to the conservative.”

““Well, what are you doing? What have you done?”
“I am sitting in this char,” said Poirot. “Thinking,” he added.
“Is that all?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“It is the important thing,” said Poirot.”

“Do you always travel first-class, Mr. Hardman?”
“Yes, sir. The firm pays my travelling expenses.”

“Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. “Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small — it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion! Everything matters.””

“There’s no reason why women shouldn’t behave like rational beings,” said Simon stolidly.
Poirot said dryly:
“Quite frequently they do. That is even more upsetting!”

““Tcha! Tcha!” cried Poirot irritably. “You argue like a child.””

“How averse human beings were ever to admit ignorance!”

““It makes her rather alarming,” I said.
“Sincerity has that effect,” said Miss Marple.”

“Remember, he was a fanatic, and there is no fanatic like a religious fanatic.”

““Me, I am convinced it is the truth,” said M. Bouc, becoming more and more enamoured of his theory.”

“It's as easy to utter lies as truth.”

“He had not remembered her name, but he had seen her dance — had been carried away and fascinated by the supreme art that can make you forget art.”

“"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."
"'Journeys 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".”

“Without interest (hers not the type to wonder why!) but with perfect efficiently, Miss Lemon had fulfilled her task.”

“For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.
“Good heavens Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken ill?””

“There is always something about conscious tact that is very irritating.”