“Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said."It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that."Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully. "She must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is not my desire to speak technically-that is only confusing; but I can assure you that two of the blows were delivered with such forces as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle.""It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Poirot."It was most unscientific," returned Dr. Constantine."The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.""C'est une femme," said the chef de train again. "Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength." He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.”

“About Miss Debenham," he said rather awkwardly. "You can take it from me that she's all right. She's a pukka sahib."What," asked Dr. Constantine with interest, "does a pukka sahib mean?""It means," said Poirot, "that Miss Debenham's father and brothers were at the same kind of school as Colonel Arbuthnot was.""Oh!" said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. "Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all.""Exactly," said Poirot.”

“Jane, look at me,” he asked, and when she did, he knew she was seeing what she needed in his eyes. “You are the only woman for me–it‟s only ever been you. I told you once before, that I have never loved before you, and I will never love again. Jane,” he said, forcing her face to down to his. “There is no condition on my love. No end to my desire. Don‟t put them there, my love.”

“And yet here he was, looking at Jem Carstairs, a boy so fragile-looking that he appeared to be made out of glass, with the hardness of his expression slowly dissolving into tentative uncertainty. "You are not really dying," he said, the oddest tone to his voice, "are you?"Jem nodded. "So they tell me.""I am sorry," Will said."No", Jem said softly. He drew his jacket aside and took a knife from the belt at his waist. "Don't be ordinary like that. Don't say you're sorry. Say you'll train with me."He held the knife to Will, hilt first. Charlotte held her breath, afraid to move. She felt as if she were watching something very important happen, though she could not have said what.Will reached out and took the knife, his eyes never leaving Jem's face. His fingers brushed the other boy's as he took the weapon from him. It was the first time, Charlotte thought that she had ever seen him touch any other person willingly."I'll train with you," he said.”

“Lleu is a hard lord,” said Huw, “He is killing Gronw without anger, without love, without mercy. He is hurt too much by the woman and the spear. Yet what is there when it is done? His pride. No spear. No friend.”Roger started at Huw. “You’re not so green as you’re grass-looking, are you?” he said. “Now you mention it, I have been thinking— That bloke Gronw was the only one with any real guts at the end.”“But none of them is all to blame,” said Huw. “It is only together they are destroying each other.”“That Blod-woman was pretty poor,” said Roger, “however you look at it.”“No,” said Huw. “She was made for her lord. Nobody is asking her if she wants him. It is bitter twisting to be shut up with a person you are not liking very much. I think she was longing for the time when she was flowers on the mountain, and it is making her cruel, as the rose is growing thorns.”

“The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?”The sheets,” she said succinctly.Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream.Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.”The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?”Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded.The chef shrugged. “Oui.”Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.”Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?”