Mr Figaro gulped and wiped his brow, feeling quite dizzy. He'd never realized how rich he was.
“Yes,” said the agent, nodding and puffing at his small gray cigar,
“it's an impressive figure, isn't it? But let's continue. How old are you now, Mr Figaro?”
“Forty-two,” the barber mumbled. He suddenly felt guilty, as if he'd committed a fraud of some kind.
“And how long do you sleep at night, on average?” “Around eight hours,” Mr Figaro admitted.
The agent did some lightning calculations. The squeak of his chalk as it raced across the mirror set Mr Figaro's teeth on edge.
“Forty-two years at eight hours a night makes four hundred and forty-one million five hundred and four thousand seconds...”
“We'll have to write that off, I'm afraid. How much of the day do you devote to work, Mr Figaro?”
“Another eight hours or so,” Mr Figaro said, apologetically.
“Then we'll have to write off the same amount again,” the agent pursued relentlessly.
You also spend a certain proportion of the day eating. How many hours would you say, counting all meals?
“I don't exactly know,” Mr Figaro said nervously. “Two hours, maybe.”
전체재생
다음페이지
문장검색