LABOR: The Mind of Mr. Lewis

The big man strides ponderously up & down the big, dark-paneled office, his wide feet sinking heavily in the taupe broadloom carpet. John Llewellyn Lewis is thinking. Now his pale thick hands are clasped behind him; now they jam in great fists in his coat pockets. Deep in his heavy chops he grips a cigar the size of an auto's gearshift, and like a gearshift the cigar slides slickly from point to point along the wide mouth. A mountain in a white suit, rumpled, tired, his whitening bale of hair shaking as he...

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