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.

a great man always knows better than to explain unless an explanation is demanded. To rush into explanations and excuses is always a sign of weakness.

... evil was, perhaps, necessarily always more impressive than good.

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

There is something about conscious tact that is very irritating.

There is no question of defence. I have always acted in accordance with the dictates of my conscience. I have nothing with which to reproach myself.

Mr. Jesmond made a peculiar noise rather like a hen who has decided to lay an egg and then thought better of it.