"How's your landlady recently ?" I asked.
"Nothing new - she keeps making the same kind of news. You know, she treats her son so badly that I have seriously thought of asking help from the police living at the other side of the street ..." my friend said.
"Indeed ...?" I saw his hesitancy.
"Well, I did not. To be frank, I'm not as fond of him as I was a couple of years ago."
"Why ? I know this neighbour of yours. He seems a good lot and did help out people in need." I said.
"You know, he is heavily in debt." L whispered.
"That's no news." I wasn't moved.
"He's mixed up with the gangsters who attack the flotilla recently." He added.
"Em ..." I knew the fact, but did not ever take it seriously; I began to feel uneasy.
"And, when one of his tenants - an entirely respectable old woman - commented that he should not support the gangsters, he beat her up badly so as to keep her mouth shut !" Checkmate.
I was speechless. As George Orwell said, I look at the police and the landlady, and find it difficult to tell which is which.
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