and spend the rest of your evenings reading or gossiping with friends.”
“In short, you devote some three hours a day to useless pastimes”
“that have lost you another one hundred and sixty-five million five hundred and sixty-four thousand seconds.”
The agent broke off. “What's the matter, Mr Figaro, aren't you feeling well?”
“No,” said the barber, “- yes, I mean. Please excuse me...” “I'm almost through,” said the agent.
“First, though, we must touch on a rather personal aspect of your life - your little secret, if you know what I mean.”
Mr Figaro was so cold that his teeth had started to chatter. “So you know about that, too?” he muttered feebly.
“I didn't think anyone knew except me and Miss Daria -” “There's no room for secrets in the world of today,” his inquisitor broke in.
“Look at the matter rationally and realistically Mr Figaro, and answer me one thing: Do you plan to marry Miss Daria?”
“No - no,” said Mr Figaro, “I couldn't do that...” “Quite so,” said the man in gray.
Being paralysed from the waist down, she'll have to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair,”
yet you visit her every day for half an hour and take her flowers. Why?”
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