Ken Kesey. Over the cuckoo's nest (№ 280493)

That old Colonel Matheson. reads the writings of the wrinkles of that long yellow hand. I look close at him because I see him probably for the last time.
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I see him so clear I see his whole life.
The face is sixty years of southwest army camps, it pitted wrought steel wheels caissons, worn to the bone by thousands of feet on two-day marches.