6/23/2023 0 Comments Thunderball by Ian Fleming![]() ![]() And he had played the rubber like a fool. Five pounds a hundred as it’s the last one? He had agreed. And, although he had taken in the message, he had agreed to play just one more rubber. His final whisky and soda in the luxurious flat in Park Lane had been no different from the ten preceding ones, but it had gone down reluctantly and had left a bitter taste and an ugly sensation of surfeit. The one drink too many signals itself unmistakably. When he coughed-smoking too much goes with drinking too much and doubles the hangover-a cloud of small luminous black spots swam across his vision like amoebae in pond water. ![]() He had a hangover, a bad one, with an aching head and stiff joints. To begin with he was ashamed of himself-a rare state of mind. It was one of those days when it seemed to James Bond that all life, as someone put it, was nothing but a heap of six to four against. ![]()
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