now that my exams are over, I'm free to go back to reading woohoooooooo anyways, this being my first proper book this entire year (can you freaking imagine, 5 whole months without a single book), ofc I had to bring myself out of my slump with a Hercule Poirot. The culprit itself was easy enough to guess. we may not have had all the relevant info, but it was easy enough to catch onto the direction Poirot's investigation was going towards. Also, the end was kinda anti-climactic. Buthat wasn't what truly intrigued me in this case anyway. What actually had me seated at the edge of my seat was Elinor. I felt SO much for Elinor. She spent her whole life pretending to be who she's not, trying to fashion herself into the perfect socialite, that she didn't have anything of herself left in her. And that the man who she loved so much and who said he loved her back literally never noticed?? Roddy, you absolutely useless buffoon. And she remained such a good person in spite of everything that happened to her, but not one person had anything good to say about her character. Maybe one person. But still, I felt so incredibly bad for her. She did everything more than right, she remained generous till the end, and yet nothing mattered. Everybody had something good to say about Mary, but not one of them spoke in Elinor's defence even though Elinor did much more for them than Mary ever did. I'm sorry for the big word vomit, but I did cry myself to sleep over her last night so you'd forgive me my indignance, I hope.