At one moment we were being buffeted monstrously as we sat helplessly strapped in our seats, with the incessant sheet lightning giving us glimpses of the awful character of the storm clouds; and then the sky suddenly cleared and we were wheeling gently into Manhattan from the south. The plane tilted and we could see the Statue of Liberty dull copper green on its brown pedestal and the New York skyscrapers gap‐toothed in their wintry defence of the American continent. At La Guardia the bus company was on strike, and next morning we found pickets outside a chain of drug‐stores and in front of a large radio company (where the script writers were claiming that the corporation “could not sell them its story”). Even the Baghdad of the west had its troubles.
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