excuse me, the woman in the blue raincoat murmured.
no, pardon me! the man in the brown hat rejoindered.
except for the woman in the blue raincoat and the man in the brown hat, the concourse was deserted.
where had they come from? where were they going?
an observer, if there had been any, might well have wondered.
but worse was to come.
despite his outward show of politeness, the man in the brown hat was discomfited and terrified.
his name was harold hutchinson, and he led a secret life.
oh, you laughingly reply, everybody leads a secret life.
actually, this is only partially true.
give yourself a moment to consider the proposition.
under every exterior there is another exterior.
i refuse to be a party to such nonsense.
i understand perfectly. excuse me for bringing the subject up.
i knew you were a blithering pusyfooting gasbag.
there is no need to get personal, my friend.
forgive me, but isn’t addressing me as “my friend” somewhat personal?
please join me in saying a prayer for the man in the brown hat, the unintentional cause of all this grief.
i beg your pardon, what about the woman in the blue raincoat?
yes? what about her?
you seen to know all about her.
i know precisely nothing at all about her.
oh, come now, old man, it just won’t do.
what a diva you are.
next week, then. same time, same place?
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