Desperate Ills Need Desperate Remedies.

One Knows So Little. When One Knows More It Is Too Late.

He Was Very Much A Man Of Moods, Possibly Owing To What Is Styled The Artistic Temperment. I Have Never Seen, Myself, Why The Possession Of Artistic Ability Should Be Supposed To Excuse A Man From A Decent Exercise Of Self-control.

What's Wrong With My Proposition?" Poirot Rose. "if You Will Forgive Me For Being Personal-i Do Not Like Your Face, M. Ratchett.

There Is No Fanatic Like A Religious Fanatic.

I've Got A Stomach Now As Well As A Behind. And I Mean - Well, You Can't Pull It In Both Ways, Can You? ... I've Made It A Rule To Pull In My Stomach And Let My Behind Look After Itself.