"One must be strong," went on Mrs. Otterbourne, wagging the turban emphatically. "Strong meat - that is what my books are. Libraries may ban them - no matter! I speak the truth. Sex - ah! Monsieur Poirot - why is everyone so afraid of sex? The pivot of the universe! You have read my books?"
"Alas, Madame! You comprehend, I do not read many novels. My work -"
I had to chuckle while listening to this conversation. Poor Poirot. I have to admit, though, that I would love to see him reading Mrs. Otterbournes novel:
It was entitled Under the Fig Tree, by Salome Otterbourne. It still bore its original jacket, a gaily coloured affair representing a lady with smartly schingled hair and scarlet fingernails sitting on a tiger skin in the traditional costume of eve. Above her was a tree with leaves of an oak, bearing large and improbably coloured apples.
I like to think that Poirot keeps his books in a pristine condition, but I guess in this case, he will take the dust jacket off.