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“
En
vérité
!
And
how
many
times
have
you
seen
Mary
Marvell
on
the
screen
,
mon
cher
?
”
I
thought
.
“
About
a
dozen
times
perhaps
.
”
“
And
I
—
once
!
Yet
I
recognize
her
,
and
you
do
not
.
”
“
She
looks
so
different
,
”
I
replied
rather
feebly
.
“
Ah
!
Sacré
!
”
cried
Poirot
.
“
Is
it
that
you
expect
her
to
promenade
herself
in
the
streets
of
London
in
a
cowboy
hat
,
or
with
bare
feet
,
and
a
bunch
of
curls
,
as
an
Irish
colleen
?
Always
with
you
it
is
the
non
-
essentials
!
Remember
the
case
of
the
dancer
,
Valerie
Saintclair
.
”
I
shrugged
my
shoulders
,
slightly
annoyed
.
“
But
console
yourself
,
mon
ami
,
”
said
Poirot
,
calming
down
.
“
All
cannot
be
as
Hercule
Poirot
!
I
know
it
well
.
”
“
You
really
have
the
best
opinion
of
yourself
of
anyone
I
ever
knew
!
”
I
cried
,
divided
between
amusement
and
annoyance
.
“
What
will
you
?
When
one
is
unique
,
one
knows
it
!
And
others
share
that
opinion
—
even
,
if
I
mistake
not
,
Miss
Mary
Marvell
.
”
