still rubbing his hand. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” said his personal figurehead, appearing suddenly beside him with an expression of marked concern. “Your hand!” “Aye?” He looked down at it, cross with discomfort. “What’s amiss? All my fingers are still attached to it.” “That’s the most that could be said for it. It looks like the Gordian knot.” She knelt down beside him and took the hand into hers, massaging it in a forceful way that was doubtless helpful but so immediately painful that it made his eyes water. He closed them, breathing slowly through clenched teeth. She was scolding him for
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