15
T
regan
closed his desk quietly and hurried from the local room. The old familiar smell of engraving room acids, hot newsprint and ink was shut off sharply as though by an invisible bulkhead. He loafed down the sidewalk with the afternoon crowds. The city street’s susurrance was a soothing pianissimo after the agitated staccato of telegraph sounders and automatic printers.
A wave of faint alarm surged in him as he walked. It was a winter of discontent. He spoke the words—winter of discontent. It made him angry. Why this necessity for framing phrases—wrapping moods in neat coatings of words—words that bowed to each other and strutted and postured like puppets in a ballet? Why words? Thought should be fluid. “Winter of discontent” meant nothing. He was just uneasy—but at what?
In the
