Jealousy, you know, is usually not an affair of causes. It is much more-how shall I say?-fundamental than that. Based on the knowledge that one's love is not returned. And so one goes on waiting, watching, expecting...that the loved one will turn to someone else.

Many homicidal lunatics are very quiet, unassuming people. Delightful fellows.

The amount of missing girls I've had to trace and their family and their friends always say the same thing. 'She was a bright and affectionate disposition and had no men friends'. That's never true. It's unnatural. Girls ought to have men friends. If not, then there's something wrong about them.

I have no pity for myself either. So let it be Veronal. But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable marrows.

Juliet singles out Romeo. Desdemona claims Othello. They have no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.

Wonderful things, horses. Never know what they will do, or won't do.

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