“The other day,” he said, “I bumped into an old friend in town, a barber by the name of Figaro.”
“We hadn't met for quite a while, and I hardly recognized him, he was so changed - so irritable and grumpy and depressed.”
“He used to be a cheerful type, always singing, always airing his ideas on every subject under the sun.”
“Now, all of a sudden, he hasn't got time for anything like that.”
“The man's just a shadow of his former self - he isn't good old Figaro any more, if you know what I mean.”
“But now comes the really strange part: if he were the only one, I'd think he'd gone a bit cracked, but he isn't.”
“There are people like Figaro wherever you look - more and more of them every day.”
“Even some of our oldest friends are going the same way. I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't catching.”
Old Beppo nodded. “You're right,” he said, “it must be.”
“In that case,” said Momo, looking dismayed, “our friends need help.”
They spent a long time that evening debating what to do.
Of the men in gray and their ceaseless activities, none of them yet had the faintest suspicion.
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