That was the sort of story which the inherent democracy of
America loved. But the Brown account made of Enoch a creature of the
underworld, who still loved his early haunts and returned to them in
all their vileness. And in all the years of his political life, no
newspaper but this had ever mentioned Enoch's mother. The tale closed
with a comment on the fact that Enoch, who shunned all women, had been
seen several times in Washington giving marked attention to Miss Diana
Allen. Diana and her work were fully identified.
Enoch read the account to the last word, a flush of agonizing
humiliation deepening on his face as he did so. When he had finished,
he doubled the paper carefully, and laid it on the chair next to his.
Then he lighted a cigarette and sat with folded arms, unseeing eyes on
the newspaper. When Jonas came in an hour later, the cigarette,
unsmoked, was cold between the Secretary's lips. With trembling hands,
the colored man picked up the paper and with unbelievable venom
gleaming in his black eyes, he carried it to the rear door, spat upon
it and flung it out into the desert night. Then he returned to Enoch.
"Mr. Secretary," he said huskily, "let me take your keys."
Mechanically Enoch obeyed.
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