Camus' The Guest
“So,” he said, turning again toward Balducci, “what’s he done?” And before the gendarme had opened his mouth, Daru asked, “Does he speak French?” “No, not a word. We’ve been looking for him for a month, but they were hiding him. He killed his cousin.” “Is he against us?” “I don’t think so. But you never know.” “Why did he kill him?” “Family business, I think. One owed the other grain, it seems. It’s not clear. Anyway, he killed the cousin with a billhook. You know, the way you’d kill a sheep, zip!…” Balducci made a gesture of drawing a blade across his throat, and the Arab, his attention attracted, watched him with a kind of anxiety. Daru felt a sudden anger against this man, against all men and their filthy spite, their inexhaustible hatreds, their bloodlust.
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