The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

Scotch.
Honda had kept one thing from Keiko: that the boy
they had met today was clearly different from his
predecessors. The mechanism of his self-awareness
was as apparent as if it lay behind a window. He had
seen nothing of the sort in the other three. It seemed
to him that the internal workings of the boy and his
own were as alike as two peas. It was impossible that
such could be the case—and yet, might the boy be
that rarity, someone who knows and is all the more
beautiful for knowledge? But that was impossible. If it
was impossible, then, carrying all the proper marks,
the proper age and the three moles, might the boy be
the first instance of a cleverly wrought counterfeit set
down before Honda?
They were beginning to feel sleepy. The talk moved
to dreams.
“I very seldom dream,” said Keiko. “Even now I
sometimes do dream of examinations, though.”
“They say you go on having dreams of
examinations all through your life. I haven’t had one in
ten years.”
“That’s because you were a good student.”
But it seemed altogether inappropriate to be talking
with Keiko of dreams. It was like talking to a banker
about knitting.