It’s been a misery for me, living with Christine Keeler.

They wanted to hear about the sex, of course. But not the rest; no one wanted to hear the rest.

I took on the sins of everybody, of a generation, really.

However I dress it up, I was a spy and I am not proud of it.

It’s been a misery for me, living with Christine Keeler.

We knew we were talking about spies. I knew he knew I knew. I was digging my own grave.

He had a way with him. Before you had a chance to say no, he was there and done. That only happened to me once before, with a duke, who literally swept me off my feet, and before I knew what was happening, we’d done it. Another terrible mistake.

Men, all men, were always trying to get hold of me, you know.

I won’t say I didn’t like it at the time, the sex, that is, because I wouldn’t have let him do it at all if that had been the case.

I have survived and possibly I should not hope for more than that.

I don’t know if he was the fourth man or the fifth, but he was certainly in the top 10.

I enjoyed sex and indulged in it when I fancied the men.

Bill Astor knew these papers were missing. Stephen showed his hand in October.

No one else knows the whole story. I was there. I lived through it.

As a little girl I used to daydream about my real father coming on a white horse to rescue me.

I’m terrified of men these days. If someone asked me out now, I don’t know what I’d say, how I’d react. But I couldn’t go through with it, not at all. I suppose I’ve been terrified of them all along.

He’s 85 and he’s met another woman. Still, at 85, why ever not?

I went out every single night so I was never alone with my stepfather. At 12, I stopped going on holiday with them. The times I was alone with him I always made sure I was all covered up.

I never found anyone who was good enough, who I could trust enough.

Discretion is the polite word for hypocrisy.

I have always been free with my love – it is my nature. I am easily captivated by men and they have always been attracted to me.

If I don’t tell it all now, the story in the history books will always be imperfect and that would be wrong.

They came and bound me up and I had awful stretch marks. I hated my breasts after that.

My mother used to go out on her own, and I used to have to keep a look out for my stepfather coming home.

The fathers, if they got me alone, would try to kiss and fondle me. I hated it.

One way of reading my life is that I have been in constant search for a father.

Even a criminal has the right to a new life, but they made sure I did not have that. They just didn’t stop calling me a prostitute for ever and ever and ever and ever.