Don’t tell me for Christ sake about this Cliff,” the Consul wrote in one of his rare early letters, “I can see him and I hate the bastard already: shortsighted and promiscuous, six foot three of gristle and bristle and pathos, of deep-voiced charm and casuistry.” The Consul had seen him with some astuteness as a matter of fact—poor Cliff!—one seldom thought of him now and one tried not to think of the
