Then Flora drew herself up and spoke.

“ M. Poirot is right. I took that money. I stole. I am a thief⁠—yes, a common, vulgar little thief. Now you know! I am glad it has come out. It’s been a nightmare, these last few days!” She sat down suddenly and buried her face in her hands. She spoke huskily through her fingers. “You don’t know what my life has been since I came here. Wanting things, scheming for them, lying, cheating, running up bills, promising to pay⁠—oh! I hate myself when I think of it all! That’s what brought us together, Ralph and I. We were both weak! I understood him, and I was sorry⁠—because I’m the same underneath. We’re not strong enough to stand alone, either of us. We’re weak, miserable, despicable things.”

She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot.