“He still kept smiling. And his moustache was definitely plotting something.”

“Suddenly he thought he saw a trait of soul-less habit in her dear coarse face, something mechanical and unmysterious in her friendly smile, something unworthy of him. His gesture froze in mid-air; the smile froze on his face. Was he still in love with her, did he really still desire her? No, he had been there too often. All too often he had seen this selfsame smile and smiled back without a prompting from his heart. What had still been all right yesterday was suddenly no longer possible today.”

“I suppose next time I come home I shall find you wearing false moustaches—or are you doing so now?' Poirot winced. His moustaches had always been his sensitive point. He was inordinately proud of them. My words touched him on the raw. 'No, no, indeed, mon ami. That day, I pray the good God, is still far off. The false moustaches! Quelle Horreur!’ He tugged at them vigorously to assure me of their genuine character. 'Well, they are very luxuriant still,' I said. 'N’est-ce pas? Never, in the whole of London, have I seen a pair of moustaches to equal mine.' A good job too, I thought privately.”

“Irial!”“Still here.” Irial didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled a little.“You’re an ass,” Niall said, but he kept his hands on Irial’s chest so that he could feel both pulse and breath.“You too, Gancanagh,” Irial murmured.”

“Trent has kept his promise. He makes me smile every day.”

“Amy sat back and grinned. "You just smiled." That was definitely something else she could get used to.Of course, he frowned immediately. "I smile.”