Back to an old standby . . . James Bond thanks to Ian Fleming. I'll have more on this one later, but the first line should have been a clue that I was getting something different.
I was running away. I was running away from England, from my childhood, from the winter, from a sequence of untidy, unattractive love-affairs, from the few sticks of furniture and jumble of overworn clothes that my London life had collected around me; and I was running away from drabness, fustiness, snobbery, the claustrophobia of close horizons and from my inability, although I am quite an attractive rat, to make headway in the rat-race. In fact, I was running away from almost everything except the law.
Fleming, Ian -The Spy Who Loved Me