John le Carré

Avery watched the lamps come up the street. He was quite young, belonging to that intermediate class of contemporary Englishman which must reconcile an Arts degree with an uncertain provenance.

not thawing and freezing, but static like a year without seasons.

His voice varied a lot, like the voice of a commercial traveller. His phoney drawl was more extravagant when he addressed his own class, when it was a matter of emphasising a distinction which did not exist; or as now, when he was nervous.

Why the hell did he have to be surrounded by kids and women? He was doing a man’s job, wasn’t he, with five thousand dollars in his pocket and a phoney passport?

Her son was less her projection than her excuse; a wall against the world and not a channel to it.

He was sleek, small and very bland; a precise cat of a man, clean-shaven and groomed.

‘Oh dear,’ said Avery automatically. It was their practice in the Department: antique and understated.

There was no affectation but a spontaneous goodwill which does not seem to survive war or photographs.

Leclerc adopted his academic tone. It had a bullying quality as if facts were facts and could not be disputed

Haldane’s cold gaze held Avery for a moment, then released him, his case not forgiven but suspended.