Look at the whole, rotten edifice, Philby thought. Look at it. The House of Windsor, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the pious platitudes, the police and prisons, the hangman, the servitude of the millions in the colonies, the daily grind of the people who actually made things, who grew the food, who cleaned up, who went down the mines in rattling cages and who died because the coal dust blocked their bronchial tubes. Look at that, and ask yourself how could you possibly not feel complete revulsion. How could you not?
