Grasp the handle of the door, he shrugged. I opened the door. Whistling and smiling, headed by the Secretary to the elevator. The hallway was cooler, a little more than artificial cold.
Elevator, gritting, crawled down. The cabin could suffocate - the air conditioning was not. He stood against the door, hands in pockets, shoulders forward, as if he expected that about to burst any thug in the metal box. Doors, jerking, parted, the two young men stood at attention in front of him, and he motioned to follow him. The heat and the dust acted oppressively, and the sun shone so fiercely that he immediately put on his dark glasses, though they had to squint. Long dusty white limousine stood ready. Harrell got into the back seat, the door immediately fenced off from the heat. His face glistened with sweat. The narrow lane was clogged rickshaws, fuming ancient trucks, bicycles, chickens and stunted swarthy savages. Limousine patiently maneuvered between the obstacles.
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