The silence in the house had smothered Ben for the past six months (...) On the days after the funeral when he had woken up in the morning in the old bed, he felt it resting on his upper lip, collecting in the dent below his nose during the confusion between sleep and waking.

Being in love is... anxious, he said. Wanting to please, worrying that she will see me as I really am. But wanting to be known. That is... you're naked, moaning in the dark, no dignity at all... I wanted her to see me and to love me even though she knew everything I am, and I knew her. Now she's gone, and my knowledge is incomplete.

Do you know about phantom-limb syndrome? Julia nodded. There's pain where she ought to be. It's feeding the other pain.

He was not ready for her absence, No one he loved had died, until Elspeth. Other people were absent, but no one was dead. Elspeth? Even her name seemed empty, as though it had detached itself from her and was floating untethered in his mind. How am I supposed to live without you? It was not the matter of the body; his body would carry on as usual. The problem was located in the word how: he would live, but without Elspeth the flavour, the manner, the method of living were lost to him. He would have to relearn solitude.

"M. Poirot," she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man's bow over her hand, and his murmured "My Lady," and then releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed: "I believe in small men! They are the clever ones."