دانلود رمان انگلیسی “مک نامارا در جنگ”

A stooped old man with thinning hair trudged about a mile and a half every weekday morning from the Watergate apartment complex on the Potomac River to Thirteenth and I Street, NW, in downtown Washington and then returned toward evening. His small office, given to him by Corning Glass, on whose board of directors he had once served, came with a secretary who later recalled that he “stayed in his own space” and most mornings came into the office with “his head bowed.” Sometimes the old man was recognized by other pedestrians or denizens of office buildings along the way (one of us, Philip Taubman, saw the figure frequently passing near The New York Times’ Washington bureau), some doing double takes to see if it was really the man they had seen so often on television and newspaper front pages in years past, but he paid no attention to those who noticed him. Staring straight ahead, he looked, according to one observer who knew him and had once struggled to keep up with his fast, powerwalking pace, like “Ichabod Crane, hunched over, old and shaky, wearing a shabby trench coat with its belt hanging down.”