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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Agatha Christie

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Practice and improve your writing style below

Below, I have some random texts from popular authors. All you have to do is, spend some time daily, and type these lines in the box below. And, eventually, your brain picks the writing style, and your own writing style improves!

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Type these lines in the boxes below to practice and improve your writing style.

“Hein!” said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: “Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?”

 

“No right? Have I no right, Mary?” he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. “Mary——”

 

“My mother, at the time of her death, and for some time before it, was taking a tonic containing strychnine.”

 

As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only conclude that Poirot was mad.

 

It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner’s questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army.

 

I did not see Poirot again until the following morning. I found him placidly finishing his breakfast.

 

“As we have carte blanche, I shall expend threepence in ringing up the Ritz—where you may have noticed our Count is staying. After that, as my feet are a little damp, and I have sneezed twice, I shall return to my rooms and make myself a tisano over the spirit lamp!”

 

A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication-cord.

 

Dear Sir: I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest convenience. Yours faithfully, Ebenezer Halliday. The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at Poirot. For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud:

 

Japp’s jaw fell. “How on earth did you know? Don’t tell me it was those almighty ‘little gray cells’ of yours!”

 

“One does these foolish things when one is young,” I murmured, “though Race is certainly old enough to know better.”

 

“I suspect everybody,” I said darkly, “and if you’ve read any detective stories, Suzanne, you must know that it’s always the most unlikely person who’s the villain. Lots of criminals have been cheerful fat men like Sir Eustace.”

 

We walked from the train to the hotel, a big white building closely wired against mosquitoes. There were no roads, no houses. We went out on the stoep and I uttered a gasp. There, half a mile away, facing us, were the Falls. I’ve never seen anything so grand and beautiful—I never shall.

 

That night I invaded Suzanne’s cabin, alight with excitement.

 

“There’s Miss Beddingfeld,” I said thoughtfully. “She wants to get to Rhodesia to dig up bones, I believe. I’ve a good mind to offer her a temporary job as a secretary. She can typewrite, I know, for she told me so.”

 

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