We need never be ashamed of our tears.
Oh me, I have been struck a mortal blow right inside.
"Nothing", I said sadly. "They are two delightful women!" "And neither of them is for you?" finished Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows?"
“It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved,” she explained.
The tear rose in Miss Marple's eyes. Succeeding pity, there came anger - anger against a heartless killer. And then, displacing both these emotions, there came a surge of triumph - the triumph some specialist might feel who has successfully reconstructed an extinct animal from a fragment of jawbone and a couple of teeth.
Who is there who has not felt a sudden startled pang at reliving an old experience or feeling an old emotion?
We shall not hunt together again, my friend. Our first hunt was here — and our last … They were good days, Yes, they have been good days...
Life continues, and some mornings, weary of the noise, discouraged by the prospect of the interminable work to keep after, sickened also by the madness of the world that leaps at you from the newspaper, finally convinced that I will not be equal to it and that I will disappoint everyone—all I want to do is sit down and wait for evening. This is what I feel like, and sometimes I yield to it.
Like great works, deep feelings always mean more than they are conscious of saying.