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.

You want beauty,' said Hercules Poirot. 'Beauty at any price. For me, it is truth. I want always truth.

Curious things, habits. People themselves never knew they had them.

There is something about conscious tact that is very irritating.

She was a lucky woman who had established a happy knack of writing what quite a lot of people wanted to read.

I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash.

The human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.