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The fact remains that it was for him, in his heart of hearts, a kind of defeat, the day when, at the insistence of Mme Maigret, he settled himself before the green baize of the card table, and asked like a beginner, “How much do we play for?”
The fact remains that it was for him, in his heart of hearts, a kind of defeat, the day when, at the insistence of Mme Maigret, he settled himself before the green baize of the card table, and asked like a beginner, “How much do we play for?”
It had started that winter. As soon as it got dark, Maigret didn’t know what to do with himself.
He had barely amused himself for a month turning the knobs of his wireless.
It didn’t take him but half an hour to read his three newspapers.
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