The Frenchman had talked in the build-up to the game about how focused his side were and they looked it, taking the game to their Championship opponents from the first whistle with a pace and panache Leeds simply could not live with.
This was a thoughtful and critical attitude, and also, basically, a sombre one beside which John Cowper’s seemed to be that of an inspired idiot and innocent of the Dostoievskean kind; and Llewelyn’s the posture of an attitudinizing romantic.
She emailed me last week, asking about the status of the project.
From a nearby town came “crews of eager young men” who “pitched in” through the “attritive, swirling, arctic-like night.”
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