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Quentin treated me with an impatient familiarity, as if we were both sticky and were leaving streaks on each other.
She was a small, tough, wiry woman who put me in mind of an elegant alligator.
The next evening, I went to meet her at the pub she had suggested, an old-fashioned watering hole close to the Ministry, poky and bizarrely fuggy and upholstered in leather. It was like being inside the elbow of a patched jumper.
I had limited experience of charm—that twinkly old-fashioned thing that afflicts the eccentric—and
Despite being out of uniform, he looked oddly formal, as if he was the sole person in serif font.
