“The trouble is,” he thought sourly, “my work leaves me no time for that sort of thing, and you need time for the right kind of life.
You've got to be free, but I'm a lifelong prisoner of scissors, lather and chitchat.”
At that moment a smart gray limousine pulled up right outside Mr Figaro's barbershop.
A gray-suited man got out and walked in. He deposited his gray briefcase on the ledge in front of the mirror,
hung his gray bowler on the hat-rack, sat down in the barber's chair,
produced a gray notebook from his breast pocket and started leafing through it, puffing meanwhile at a small gray cigar.
Mr Figaro shut the street door because he suddenly found it strangely chilly in his little shop.
“What's it to be,” he asked, “shave or haircut?” Even as he spoke, he cursed himself for being so tactless: the stranger was as bald as an egg.
The man in gray didn't smile. “Neither,” he replied in a peculiarly flat and expressionless voice - a gray voice, so to speak.
“I'm from the Timesaving Bank. Permit me to introduce myself: Agent No. XYQ/384/b. We hear you wish to open an account with us.”
“That's news to me,” said Mr Figaro. “To be honest, I didn't even know such a bank existed.”
“Well, you know now,” the agent said crisply. He consulted his little gray notebook.
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