He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. She tiptoed to the stand and gathered up the manuscripts which she carried to a chair by the window. We were two people with a craving. "Gentlemen of the Mint," said the orator, "when I was first called, some fifty years ago, to the important office I hold, there existed across the water three places of refuge for the oppressed and persecuted debtor. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. . . Well, that’s the situation. But he knew. I have been imaging—” “Mr.
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