I, without question, am that easy to deceive. Or, at least, I tend to get swept away by atmosphere. My gullibility—which I prefer to term active engagement in creating experiences—aided my enjoyment of my first Agatha Christie novel as much as it did while touring Cairo and Luxor. I let the red herrings ensorcell me like an episode of Scooby Doo; I never tried to outthink the plot or predict what had—or might—happen,

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