“Alas," murmured Poirot to his mustaches, "that one can only eat three times a day ...”

“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.”

“Poirot thought it not quite professional to begin a routine working day before ten.”

“Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.”

“Life can be very terrible," he said. "One needs much courage.""To kill oneself? yes, I suppose one does.""Also to live," said Poirot, "one needs courage.”

“Poirot, watching him, felt suddenly a doubt--an uncomfortable twinge. Was there, here, something that he had missed? Some richness of the spirit? Sadness crept over him. Yes, he should have become acquainted with the classics. Long ago. Now, alas, it was too late....”

“Poirot was standing in the larder in a dramtic attitude. In his hand he was brandishing a leg of mutton.'My dear Poirot! What is the matter? have you gone mad?''Regard i pray you this mutton! But regard it closely!”