The monument entered my office.
The arched shoulders, the empty gaze and the appesanti step. I say the monument, not out of mockery, but to make it clear how man was endowed with an extraordinary body. Undoubtedly obese, he had to measure well within two meters. His puffy, greasy face looked more like a marshmallow mask ready to fall than that of a twenty-year-old. And yet, Luc Granveau, was twenty years old. Recently, according to the letter I had read the day before. It seemed like double that.
I was watching him from the back of my chair, serenely:
" Please, Luke. Settle down, I told him simply by designating him a psychoanalytic couch that could not be more traditional. "
He performed with infinite weariness, lying down without further ado on the leather couch tanned by human misery. His impressive ribcage rose loudly, as if the crossing of the room had required the man a superhuman effort.
After a few seconds of respite, I decided to get to the heart of the matter. I had to find a suitable catcher, two or three innocuous words that could take us to the heart of the problem quickly. I watched him closely, looking for clues:
- "Then, Luke, I said with connivance. How are you doing? "
He, fixing the panelled ceiling of my closet:
- "Everything I'm going to tell you won't come out of these walls, will it? The molosse inquired in a voice as tired as it was greasy. "
- "Of course, Luke. I am bound to confidentiality, how much would you even confess to me a crime. "
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