Corridors of Power by C.P. Snow

Next morning I woke early and lay listening to the papers as they thudded on to the hall floor. They didn't settle either what I feared, or what I hoped. The Times was playing down the whole debate: on the middle page, Trafford only got a couple of lines. The Telegraph gave bolder headlines and more space: if one knew the language, one knew that they were anti-Roger. But they also muffled Trafford's attack. The Express was angry with the chief Labour speaker. I dressed and went up Albion Gate to buy the other morning papers. I came back to breakfast, neither Margaret nor myself out of our misery, either for good or bad. In the morning light, she was ashamed of herself for having been so elated the night before.

I wondered whether Roger, too, had hated the morning. I wondered whether Caro had tried to give him comfort, as Margaret did to me. She knew, better than I did, that time and the hour ran through the roughest day.