"Francis walked by the railings of Green Park, not taking a taxi, still practising the frugality he had developed after his failure to appropriate the dressmaker's money. It wasn't important that the idyll changed again; what mattered was he had no friend. He'd gone on holidays with friends, but always there'd been sulkiness and tears. 'You're Francis,' a girl he'd thought to be sympathetic had pronounced six months ago in Cleethorpes . . .
His melancholy deepened as he progressed through the London night. People left a gambling club near Hyde Park Corner, young men in evening dress shouting and...
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