(After midnight an old classmate drops in on Inspector De Vincenzi at the police station.)
De Vincenzi looked at him. Why in the world was he here at this hour? And why had he come?
They had been classmates and friends. They were certainly friendly, but not, perhaps, close. Come to think of it, where could one find closeness these days, with men all hurling themselves towards their own destinies, with their own passions, their own needs and all the vices of the human body?
Each one of us has a secret, and the man with one he can admit to is fortunate.
from The Murdered Banker by Augusto De Angelis
A Bookwoman’s Holiday 