Poirot: Do Not Allow Hate

In The Midst Of Life, We Are In Death.

I Would Like It To Be Said That I Was A Good Writer Of Detective And Thriller Stories.

I Looked At Her. Sheila Was My Girl--the Girl I Wanted--and Wanted For Keeps. But It Wasn't Any Use Having Illusions About Her. Sheila Was A Liar And Probably Always Would Be A Liar. It Was Her Way Of Fighting For Survival--the Quick Easy Glib Denial. It Was A Child's Weapon--and She'd Probably Never Got Out Of Using It. If I Wanted Sheila, I Must Accept Her As She Was--be At Hand To Prop Up The Weak Places. We've All Got Our Weak Places. Mine Were Different From Sheila's, But They Were There.

Is There Ever Any Particular Spot Where One Can Put One's Finger And Say, "it All Began That Day, At Such A Time And Such A Place, With Such An Incident?

There Is Something About Conscious Tact That Is Very Irritating.