Quotes About Friendship

Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend.

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....

Mrs. Cavendish: I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next.

He dragged me back - just in time. A tree had crashed down on to the side walk, just missing us. Poirot stared at it, pale and upset. "It was a near thing that! But clumsy, all the same - for I had no suspicion - at least hardly any suspicion. Yes, but for my quick eyes, the eyes of a cat, Hercule Poirot might now be crushed out of existence - a terrible calamity for the world. And you, too, mon ami - though that would not be such a national catastrophe." "Thank you," I said coldly.

Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.

Mademoiselle, I speak as a friend. Bury your dead! ... Give up the past! Turn to the future! What is done is done. Bitterness will not undo it.' 'I'm sure that would suit dear Linnet admirably.' Poirot made a gesture. 'I am not thinking of her at this moment! I am thinking of you. You have suffered - yes - but what you are doing now will only prolong the suffering.

There! Now we're friends!" declared the minx. "Say you're sorry about my sister -" "I am desolated!" "That's a good boy!

You don't appreciate a faithful husband when you've got one,' said Tommy. 'All my friends tell me you never know with husbands,' said Tuppance. 'You have the wrong kind of friends,' said Tommy.

I avoided my own friends and acquaintances, yet the loneliness of my existence was insupportable.

I don't want to write about it at all. I want, you see, to think about it as little as possible. Hercule Poirot was dead - and with him died a good part of Arthur Hastings.

the horror of sitting at a tea table, looking across at my best loved friend, and suddenly realising that the person sitting there was a stranger. That, I think, describes best what Archie was like when he came. He went through the motions of ordinary greetings, but he was, quite simply, not Archie.

A dog is a great promoter of friendly intercourse.

Linnet laughed. 'Why, I haven't got an enemy in the world.

Mr. Hastings—you are always so kind, and you know such a lot." It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.

But it is beautiful, my friend," said Hercule Poirot with admiration. "So clear—so beautifully clear." "You sound as if you were talking about soup," grumbled the inspector. "It may be Consommé to you—but to me there's a good deal of thick Mock Turtle about it still.

My dear Boris, can you not take a joke?" "Was it a joke?

In spite of all my aches and pains, and I've got plenty. Inside I go on feeling just a chit like Gina. Perhaps everyone does. The glass shows them how old they are and they just don't believe it. It seems only a few months ago that we were at Florence. Do you remember Fräulein Schweich and her boots?" The two elderly women laughed together at events that had happened nearly half a century ago.

To dear Peter, most faithful of friends and dearest of companions, a dog in a thousand

I do think you should be more careful how you choose your friends. You are so credulous, dear, so easily gulled. I suppose it is being a writer and having so much imagination. If you were older and had more experience of life you would have been on guard at once.

If anyone is really determined to lend you a book, you never can get out of it!

Enemies! People these days don't have enemies ! Not English people!

Quando si vive nello stesso paese, uno non sente il bisogno di programmare incontri con i vecchi amici: prima o poi è convinto che li incontrerà. Questo però, se ci si muove in sfere diverse, non accade mai.

M. Poirot,' she said somewhat breathlessly, 'Can I speak to you alone?' 'Milady, Captain Hastings is as my other self. You can speak before him as though he were a thing of no account, not there at all. Be seated, I pray you.

He had known George Barton ever since the latter's boyhood. Barton's uncle had been a country neighbour of the Races. There was a difference of over twenty years between the two men. Race was over sixty, a tall, erect, military figure, with sunburnt face, closely cropped iron-grey hair, and shrewd dark eyes.