Explore "The Atom Curtain" by Nick B. Williams on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O'Hara put down his empty glass.
"I have had enough of this," he said, and got up, as an angered lion might get up -- that kind of throttled wrath, restrained only by the dignity of his huge and thickly muscled body, for the pent-up loathing that he had felt for Stephen Bryce -- the Father, the only brain guiding the destinies of the hundreds of millions swarming through the subterranean cities of the Western Hemisphere -- was burning through him, even here in London, in this flat of his in Bloomsbury, much as if he had gotten into his veins a dose of that caustic solution that he had seen dissolving the masses of overpopulated Emporia.