“Mais qu’est ce que vous faites là?” “I was packing for you. I thought it would save time.” “Vous éprouvez trop d’émotion, Hastings. It affects your hands and your wits. Is that a way to fold a coat? And regard what you have done to my pyjamas. If the hairwash breaks what will befall them?” “Good heavens, Poirot,” I cried, “this is a matter of life and death. What does it matter what happens to our clothes?” “You have no sense of proportion, Hastings. We cannot catch a train earlier than the time that it leaves, and to ruin one’s clothes will not be the least helpful in preventing a murder.”
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