George Smiley liked the bookshop; there was a faint whiff of the Bodleian about it in the more obscure corners of the place, and he felt pleasantly at home. So much so that he wondered if he was dreaming this, and if he would soon wake up to confront the consequences of all that had passed in Berlin.

He chose not to dwell on this, however.

Instead he was now engaged in re-organising a shelf of German poetry that had been left in disarray by a previous client, not far from Bertie's perusal of philosophy.