It was Thornton who led him into an office
filled mostly with young women, who were laboring at clicking
machines; and it was Thornton who presented a square bit of white card
to a gray-haired man at a desk, who, after reading it, rose from his
chair, bowed, and shook hands with him. And a few moments later a door
opened, and Jan Thoreau, alone, passed through it, his heart
quivering, his breath choking him, his hand clutching at the papers in
his breast pocket.
Outside Thornton waited. An hour passed and still the door did not
reopen. The man at the desk glanced curiously at Thornton. Two girls
at typewriters exchanged whispered opinions as to who might be this
wild-looking creature from the north who was taking up an hour of the
sub-commissioner's time. Nearly two hours passed before Jan appeared.
Thornton, still patient, rose as the door opened. His eyes first
encountered the staring face of the sub-commissioner. Then Jan came
out. He had aged five years in two hours. There was a tired stoop to
his shoulders, a strange pallor in his cheeks. To Thornton his thin
face seemed to have grown thinner. With bowed head, looking nowhere
but ahead of him, Jan passed on, and as the last door opened to let
them out into the pale winter sun, Thornton heard the muffled sobbing
of his breath.
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