The thin man stood by the window, fingering a cigaret, inhaling smoke steadily in long, deep drags, his hot brown eyes staring across Michigan Boulevard's river of traffic, across the concrete esplanade that bridges the railroad tracks, and out to the blue peace of Lake Michigan.
The thin man's thoughtful eyes were tired, his scanty hair disordered on his pallid skull. His bony shoulders drooped like a weary farmer's, his little paunch sagged in the baggy white trousers that flapped inches short of his ankles. Harry Hopkins was tired, but he was happy,...
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