“He dragged me back - just in time. A tree had crashed down on to the side walk, just missing us. Poirot stared at it, pale and upset. "It was a near thing that! But clumsy, all the same - for I had no suspicion - at least hardly any suspicion. Yes, but for my quick eyes, the eyes of a cat, Hercule Poirot might now be crushed out of existence - a terrible calamity for the world. And you, too, mon ami - though that would not be such a national catastrophe." "Thank you," I said coldly.”

“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.”

“If you are to be Hercule Poirot, you must think of everything.”

“Hercule Poirot: I am an imbecile. I see only half of the picture. Miss Lemon: I don't even see that.”

“You weren't quite accurate just now." "I? Not accurate?" Poirot sounded affronted.”

“My remarks are, as always, apt, sound, and to the point. (Hercule Poirot)”

“But Aunt Maureen makes smashing omelettes." Julia Upjohn."She makes smashing omelettes." Poirot's voice was happy. He sighed."Then Hercule Poirot has not lived in vain, he said. It was I who taught your Aunt Maureen to make an omelette.”