Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

"Sometimes he was scared at the way these people grew in the dark without his knowledge."
*Perfect* description of being a writer. Dear Wormold!

Oh, Beatrice. You apotheosis of the take-charge Britlady, you future clubwoman, you perfect and nonpareil exemplar of the Modern Gal!

It's like Wormold has no radar for danger. He can't sense the smallest particle of undercurrent. In a quantum-entangled universe, he's all wave, no particle.

*nyuknyuknyuk* snap-action coupling *nyuknyuknyuk*

Atomic-grade farce, this. Poor old Hasselbacher, it hurts so bad when you lose illusions in old age.

A bit heavy-handed, that; not worthy of you old man. Not "the thing," don't you know.

Hasselbacher's correct, lie and they can't prove you're not doing your job. Supposedly confidential information especially. In 1958 Havana, it wouldn't be safe to go asking questions for any reason.

Oh, Miss Jenkinson, I'd forgotten you! How marvelous. Poor Beatrice. Poor Ethel for that matter. "Both Latin tongues," priceless perfect insular Imperial English thing to say.

And here endeth my slightest tinge of remaining respect for poor old Wormold. Milly just ran rings around him using her logical skills to guide his reactive emotional mind to her desired goal.

The high comedy of the toilet scene...only Greene could make that work. I wonder what Greene thought of Fleming and his silliness.