How stupid these people were, coming into my office unarmed.

Where may one breathe?” demands one Continental Macaroni, in a yellow waistcoat, “— in New-York, Taverns have rooms where Smoke is prohibited.” “Tho’ clearly,” replies the itinerant Stove-Salesman Mr. Whitpot, drawing vigorously at his Pipe, “what’s needed is a No-Idiots Area.

Log kahte hai,
iske paas sirf gussa hai,
Par, pyaar na milne ka ye natiza h,,

Then finally he opened the wrong door, and what came out at him was his problem, not mine.

Written By Lee Child

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