At the small table, sitting very upright, was one of the ugliest old ladies he had ever seen. It was an ugliness of distinction - it fascinated rather than repelled.

You agree - I'm sure you agree that beauty is the only thing worth living for.

Authors were shy, unsociable creatures, atoning for their lack of social aptitude by inventing their own companions and conversations.

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.

Very unfortunately, she had no husband. She had never had a husband, and therefore did not kill a husband.

I married an archeologist because the older I grow, the more he appreciates me.

In my experience, people who go about looking for trouble usually find it.