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Hercule Poirot's Christmas Hercule Poirot's Christmas Hercule Poirot's Christmas Hercule Poirot's Christmas Part 1 December 22nd Stephen pulled up the collar of his coat as he walked briskly along the platform. Overhead a dim fog clouded the station. Large engines hissed superbly, throwing off clouds of steam into the cold raw air. Everything was dirty and smoke-grimed. Stephen thought with revulsion: ‘What a foul country—what a foul city!’ His first excited reaction to London, its shops, its restaurants, its well-dressed, attractive women, had faded. He saw it now as a glittering rhinestone set in a dingy setting. Supposing he were back in South Africa now…He felt a quick pang of homesickness. Sunshine—blue skies—gardens of flowers—cool blue flowers—hedges of plumbago—blue convolvulus clinging to every little shanty. And here—dirt, grime, and endless, incessant crowds—moving, hurrying—jostling. Busy ants running industriously about their ant-hill. For a moment he thought, ‘I wish I hadn’t come…’ Then he remembered his purpose and his lips set back in a grim line. No, by hell, he’d go on with it! He’d planned this for years. He’d always meant to do—what he was going to do. Yes, he’d go on with it! That momentary reluctance, that sudden questioning of himself: ‘Why? Is it worth it? Why dwell on the past? Why not wipe out the whole thing?’—all that was only weakness. He was not a boy—to be turned |
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