The Confidential Agent

by Graham Greene

One of the things which danger does to you after a time is—well, to kill emotion. I don’t think I shall ever feel anything again except fear.

no story is too wild for a man who hopes

The small unimportant junction lay lit up like a centre-piece in a darkened shop window:

praying. If we did I could say beads, burn candles—

reconciling irreconcilables.

there was a little colour in the east, and all the world except the sky had the blackness of frost-bitten vegetation.

‘Won’t’s the word.’