Conversations are always dangerous, if you have something to hide.
But I believe in luck - in destiny, if you will. It is your destiny to stand beside me and prevent me from committing the unforgivable error.What do you call the unforgivable error?Overlooking the obv...
Best of an island is once you get there - you can't go any farther...you've come to the end of things...
And then there were none.
And that very same evening - that very same evening - Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a book stall.
إن الرجل الطيب قد يهلكه حبه لامرأة سيئة - والعكس صحيح أيضا- فالرجل الشرير قد يهلكه حبه لامرأة طيبة
One of the saddest things in life, is the things one remembers.
You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is the effect on the character of the slayer.What about war?In war you do not exercise the right of private judgement. That is w...
Words, madmoiselle, are only the outer clothing of ideas.
Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details, without knowing that they are doing so. Their subconscious mind adds these little things together—and they call the result intuition.
What they need is a little immorality in their lives. Then they wouldn't be so busy looking for it in other people's.
What alchemy there was in human beings.
What I feel is that if one has got to have a murder actually happening in one's house, one might as well enjoy it, if you know what I mean.
Ulick Norman Owen—Una Nancy Owen—each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!
There's no doubt about what the man's profession has been. He's a retired hairdresser. Look at that moustache of his.
There speaks the passion and the rebellion that go with red hair. My second wife had red hair. She was a beautiful woman, and she loved me. Strange, is it not? I have always admired red-haired women....
The truth is people are an extraordinary mixture of heroism and cowardice.
The popular view that a child forgets easily is not an accurate one. Many people go right through life in the grip of an idea which has been impressed on them in very tender years.
That's the secret of existence. We're all a little mad.
One of us in this very room is in fact the murderer.