Each summer the vegetation at the top of the cliff drops a handful of seeds on to the beach, the way a rich man throws loose change to beggars. Its tides have thrown into that cup so much sand and seaweed, driftwood and pebbles and seashells that there is now, between the foot of the cliff and the water’s edge, a crescent of something closely resembling dry land, a more-or-less beach. In the cup of the J the sea is calmer there it has provided itself with a more pleasant reception. Angered by this rudeness the waves pound on the rock in impotent rage a ten-thousand-year fit of bad temper that the island ignores with impunity. High-gate Wood wouldĪround most of its coast the cliffs rise out of the cold sea without the courtesy of a beach. He would have to spend tonight in the open. If there were deeper reasons, he did not want to know them. Why was he single? He stirred uneasily-he did not like mirrors. He ought to be able to find inspiration in his real personality. He turned his mind to thinking up a cover that would explain this without inviting advances from the Mrs.

He knew that he was a pleasant, attractive man and that there was no apparent reason why he should be single. He thought this with irritation, not conceit. The deep flaw was that he was too eligible to be a bachelor. Better to be thought chronically shy than to have landladies with duplicate keys sneaking in in their nightclothes. Garden had discovered his secret-or rather, she would have if she had lived a few seconds longer- therefore he had not been totally secure, therefore his cover was not perfect, therefore he had made a mistake. If he were totally secure no one could discover his secret. If his cover were perfect, he would be totally secure. There was no question that he had made a mistake. He sat down to think about how he had gone wrong. He would wait an hour before leaving, it would be safer later.

Ken follet eye of the needle