Autumn 1960 • Vol. XXII No. 4 Fiction |

The Experience of Henning Marshall

It required no great powers of perception to see that something had happened to Henning Marshall: a slit eyebrow, a thickened bridge of his nose, a bashed cheekbone, so I wasn't joking when I asked, "What did you do—go through the windshield?" "Two broken ribs and a dropped knuckle as well," he said holding up his hand for me to inspect, "not to mention a damaged vertebra." "What happened to the other fellow?" I asked. Henning stopped smiling. "Nothing. Not even a cut lip." The idea that as peaceable a man as Henning had been in a fight, and at his age, was too preposterous for words. Your first impression of Henning was his slightly deprecatory manner, as if he was embarrassed at having made a fortune so quickly and retiring while still in his late forties, after having caught the shipping market exactly right just before the war. I would say that Henning had one of the most calmly analytical minds I've ever known, and one of the most methodical. He never seem

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The Rest Is Silence

By Warren Beck

It required no great powers of perception to see that something had happened to Henning Marshall: a slit eyebrow, a thickened bridge of his nose, a bashed cheekbone, so I […]

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