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.
Then he’d desert the dining room, his usual lair, and make a small tour of the kitchen.
“Haven’t you finished yet?” he’d ask his wife. “What are you doing?”
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