[from Christopher Isherwood’s novel, Prater Violet, 1945]
The King’s Road was wet-black, and deserted as the moon. . . . The little houses had shut their doors against all strangers and were still, waiting for dawn, bad news and the milk. There was nobody about. Not even a policeman. Not even a cat.
It was that hour of the night at which man’s ego almost sleeps.
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