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Next morning I was sitting in the hotel smoking-
room in a state of stubborn apathy. I had got just
about to the end of my tether. Since it was Sunday
and my eighth day in Liverpool I might have chosen
this moment for reviewing the past week, though I
had nothing to congratulate myself on except the fact
that I'd survived seven days without hauling down
my flag. It is possible that I meditated some desperate
counter-attack which might compel the authorities to
treat me harshly, but I had no idea how to do it.
"Damn it all, I've half a mind to go to church," I
thought, although as far as I could see there was more
real religion to be found in the Golden Treasury than in
a church which only approved of military-aged men
when they were in khaki. Sitting in a sacred edifice
wouldn't help me, I decided. And then I was taken
completely by surprise; for there was David Crom-
lech, knobby-faced and gawky as ever, advancing
across the room. His arrival brought instantaneous
relief, which I expressed by exclaiming: "Thank God
you've come!"

He sat down without saying anything. He, too, was
pleased to see me, but retained that air of anxious
concern with which his eyes had first encountered
mine, As usual he looked as if he'd slept in his uni-
form. Something had snapped inside me and I felt
rather silly and hysterical. "David, you've got an
enormous black smudge on your forehead," I re-
marked. Obediently he moistened his handkerchief
with his tongue and proceeded to rub the smudge off,
tentatively following my instructions as to its where-
abouts. During this operation his face was vacant and
childish, suggesting an earlier time when his nurse had
performed a similar service for him. "How on earth
did you manage to roll up from the Isle of Wight like