“What are you doing, Poirot?""I dissect rucksacks. It is very interesting.”

“What's wrong with my proposition?" Poirot rose. "If you will forgive me for being personal-I do not like your face, M. Ratchett.”

“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.”

“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!”

“You're a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on.""You should join a nudist colony”

“I like to see an angry Englishman," said Poirot. "They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel the less command they have of language.”

“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.”