“She's always so pleased to see me,” Mr Figaro replied, close to tears.
“But looked at objectively, from your own point of view,” said the agent,
“it's time wasted - twenty-seven million five hundred and ninety-four thousand seconds of it, to date.”
“Furthermore, if we allow for your habit of sitting at the window for a quarter of an hour every night, musing on the day's events,”
we have to write off yet another thirteen million seven hundred and ninety-seven thousand seconds.
Very well, let's see how much time that makes in all.
He drew a line under the long column of figures and added them up with the rapidity of a computer.
The sum on the mirror now looked like this: Sleep 441,504,000 seconds, Work 441,504,000 seconds,
Meals 110,376,000 seconds, Mother 55,188,000 seconds, Budgerigar 13,797,000 seconds,
Shopping, etc. 55,188,000 seconds, Friends, social club, etc. 165,564,000 seconds,
Miss Daria 27,594,000 seconds, Daydreaming 13,797,000 seconds, Grand Total 1,324,512,000 seconds
“And that figure,” said the man in gray, rapping the mirror with his chalk so sharply that it sounded like a burst of machine-gun fire,
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