Tree Farm Books


    What outsiders couldn't factor in was the compelling quality of Jim Angleton's presence, the dutiful, devoted, authentic mannerisms he'd evolved to convey the urgency of the crisis, the sacrifices which he and his men were prepared to continue to make to seal the ramparts of the West. Who presumed to rebut, watching Jim wind one long pinstriped shank ever tighter around the other, tap out one more Virginia Slim, attempt one last time not merely in words but more, really, by way of that knitted, knotted, weaving, bobbing, wincing, stalking lexicon of body language — who undertook to challenge that? Angleton's small, sculpted head — each hair combed back, wet, to expose a central part of Edwardian integrity — craned forward: Angleton's mocha eyes shone, and as his lips parted, without warning a grin would irradiate that famously hollow face. A boon, utterly unexpected, to complement the fillip of true warmth that flickered and burnished Angleton's genuine Middle-Western inflections.... [p. 296]

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