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The two middle-aged men sat in leather armchairs in a corner
of the wood-paneled library. The room was in a quiet corner of a
Massachusetts Avenue mansion. The blinds were drawn to
protect the centuries-old art from the direct rays of the early-
afternoon sun. The only light came from a dul fire that was
smoldering in the fireplace.
The fire gave the old, wood-paneled room a faintly smoky smel .
One of the men was tal , stout, and casual y dressed with
thinning gray hair and a lean face. He was drinking black coffee
from a blue Camp David mug while he studied a single sheet of
paper resting in a green folder.
The other individual, seated across from him with his back to
the bookcase, was a short bul dog of a man with a three-piece
gray suit and buzz-cut red hair. He was holding an empty shot
glass that, moments before, had been brimming with scotch.
His legs were crossed, his foot was dancing nervously, and his
cheek and chin bore the nicks of a quick, unsatisfactory shave.
The tal er man shut the folder and smiled.
“These are wonderful comments. Just perfect.”
“Thank you,” said the red-haired man.
“Jen’s a very good writer.” He shifted slowly, uncrossing his
legs. He leaned forward, causing the leather seat to groan.
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