I’m standing on the fourth floor of the Fifth Avenue offices of the most successful inventor in the history of God or man, who registered his first patent at twenty-one and made his first million by thirty, whose every utterance is printed in thirty-eight-point type across the front page of The New York Times as if he were the Oracle at Delphi, and whom the president of the United States—and most of its citizens—believes literally to be a wizard, whose name instills awe in the heart of every child with a wrench and a dream, and fear in the heart of every banker on Wall Street, and he thinks
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