Greyer, but more relaxed and amiable than when Stalin was alive, Vyacheslav Molotov gazed straight ahead through his pince-nez. He was outnumbered three to one, but as usual was demanding that the majority do business his way.
Anthony Eden fidgeted a bit, crossing and uncrossing his Savile Row-clad legs. Georges Bidault sat with head back and eyes closed as if in sleep; he was as alert as an ocelot. John Foster Dulles looked up from a note pad scratched with doodles.
The sorry, old Big Four pattern, the haggling over shadows without getting...
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