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I can’t say I liked him, but he fascinated me. He had such a small bag of tricks, those glares and noises, but he was a virtuoso with them, like a diner cook who can only make a half dozen dishes but prepares them with balletic grace.

“Mr. Hench,” he said. He let the words hang in the air. “Mr. Hench,” he said again. I knew it was a trick but he performed it so well. I felt a zing of purely irrational, utterly involuntary anxiety.

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