John Lewis, last of the great ham tragedians of politics, strode to the witness stand with long, measured steps: one-two-three-four. He bowed twice, sat down, sighed. Two tiny spring flowers, one white, one lavender, peeped from the lapel of his flowing black coat. His broad jowls were momentarily at rest, his eyebrows arched like innocent cupid's bows. Under subpoena by the Truman Committee, John Lewis had appeared gladly. There he sat, as guileless and patient as a volcano. He was ready to explain his threat of a coal strike.

First, what about...

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