“When the Holy Hour of the All-American Lunch struck, George O'Kelly slowly and with exaggerated diligence tidied up his table. People in the office shouldn’t know how in a hurry he is: success depends on the impression he makes, and there’s no point in letting everyone know that your thoughts are seven hundred miles away from work. But on the street, he gritted his teeth and ran, only occasionally raising his eyes to the bright spring sky, hanging over the very heads of passers-by. Passers-by looked up, took a deep breath of the March air that filled Times Square, and, blinded by the sun, saw no one and nothing except their own reflection in the sky...”