"Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!"
I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.
"But do you not see this - and this - and this - ?"
He illustrated each "this" with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.
Poirot had just accused me of being imaginitive, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the only explanation I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.
"It´s frozen meat", I explained gently. "Imported, you know. New Zealand."
I´m so sorry. I can´t take this book seriously.