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thirty
not from captain hastings’ personal narrativemr. cust stood by a greengrocer’s shop.
he stared across the road.
yes, that was it.
mrs. ascher. newsagent and tobacconist…
in the empty window was a sign.
to let.
empty….
lifeless….
“excuse me, sir.”
the greengrocer’s wife, trying to get at some lemons.
he apologized, moved to one side.
slowly he shuffled away—back towards the main street of the town….
it was difficult—very difficult—now that he hadn’t any money left….
not having had anything to eat all day made one feel very queer and light-headed….
he looked at a poster outside a newsagent’s shop.
the a b c case. murderer still at large. interviews with m. hercule poirot.
mr. cust said to himself:
“hercule poirot. i wonder if he knows….”
he walked on again.
it wouldn’t do to stand staring at that poster….
he thought:
“i can’t go on much longer….”
foot in front of foot…what an odd thing walking was….
foot in front of foot—ridiculous.
highly ridiculous….
but man was a ridiculous animal anyway….
and he, alexander bonaparte cust, was particularly ridiculous.
he had always been….
people had always laughed at him….
he couldn’t blame them….
where was he going? he didn’t know. he’d come to the end. he no longer looked anywherebut at his feet.
foot in front of foot.
he looked up. lights in front of him. and letters….
police station.
“that’s funny,” said mr. cust. he gave a little giggle.
then he stepped inside. suddenly, as he did so, he swayed and fell forward.
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