The big man in the rumpled suit scratched his pen steadily across the large white sheets. In the stillness of the Oval Room the two flags hung limp on the mahogany standards; blue smoke from his burning cigaret wavered up from the silver tray. On his desk were newspapers, staring headlines of bombings and battles; and a Bible, open at Isaiah.
"Your country is desolate, your cities are burned with fire: your land, strangers devour it. . . ."
The big man wrote on. Through the ceiling-high window, framing the long roll of grass,...
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