Stick me down in a trench and I could stand being shot at as well as most people, and my blood could get hot if it were given a chance.

But I think I had too much imagination.

I couldn't shake off the beastly forecasts that kept crowding my mind.
In about a fortnight, I calculated, I would be dead.

Shot as a spy--a rotten sort of ending! At the moment I was quite safe, looking for a taxi in the middle of Whitehall, but the sweat broke on my forehead.

I felt as I had felt in my adventure before the war.