He
put out his hand. Fanny extended hers. They met in a
silent grip. It was like a meeting between two men. Even
as he indexed her, Fanny's alert mind was busy docketing,
numbering, cataloguing him. They had in common a certain
force, a driving power. Fanny seated herself opposite him,
in obedience to a gesture. He crossed his legs comfortably
and sat back in his big desk chair. A great-bodied man,
with powerful square shoulders, a long head, a rugged crest
of a nose--the kind you see on the type of Englishman who
has the imagination and initiative to go to Canada, or
Australia, or America. He wore spectacles, not the
fashionable horn-rimmed sort, but the kind with gold ear
pieces. They were becoming, and gave a certain humanness to
a face that otherwise would have been too rugged, too
strong. A man of forty-five, perhaps.
He spoke first. "You're younger than I thought."
"So are you."
"Old inside."
"So am I."
He uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, folded his arms on
the desk.
"You've been through the plant, Miss Brandeis?"
"Yes.
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