The Looking Glass War

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.

There was nothing in Smiley’s face but compassion, nothing in his voice but that dreadful patience with which we speak to the insane.

He was terribly tired; the tiredness was like a physical despair, like the moment of guilt before making love.