No, that’s quite all right. I shan’t be dying just yet.
Simeon Lee, the victim, a few hours before being killed
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.
[incipit]
Hercule Poirot’s Christmas, Agatha Christie
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