32
T
regan
sat quietly. He watched the dust-motes swirling in the spring sunlight that slanted through the windows. He wondered if it harmed your lungs to breathe all that in. You must breathe it all the time—yet you only knew of it when the sun shone.
He felt vaguely that he’d been over all that before. It was long ago—in the classroom of Dr. Rex’s Academy for the Sons of English Gentlemen. This was like the classroom again—the large room, the slanting sun, the unhealthy air of institutionalism, the crowded bodies jammed together.
He looked out over the courtroom. Along the front rows the reporters bent over improvised pine tables. They scribbled away and messenger boys passed along the rows, hurrying the copy out to the telegraph battery especially installed. There was Mehlie of the
