Text - "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" Agatha Christie

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Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than
five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head
was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on
one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of
his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have
caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified
little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his
time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As
a detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved
triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.

He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow
Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he
raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.

"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him."

"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.

And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various
exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.

We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs.
Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.