Jasper Murray fell in love with the USA. They had all-night radio and three channels of television and a different morning newspaper in every city. The people were generous and their houses were spacious and their manners were relaxed and informal. Back home, English people acted as if they were perpetually taking tea in a Victorian drawing room, even when they were doing business deals or giving television interviews or playing sports. Jasper’s father, an army officer, could not see this, but his German-Jewish mother did. Here in the States, people were direct. In restaurants, waiters were efficient and helpful without bowing and scraping. No one was obsequious.
Jasper was planning a series of articles about his travels for St. Julian’s News, but he also had a higher ambition. Before leaving London, he had spoken to Barry Pugh and asked if the Daily Echo might be interested to see what he wrote. “Yeah, sure, if you come across something, you know, special,” Pugh had said without enthusiasm. Last week in Detroit, Jasper had got an interview with Smokey Robinson, lead singer of the Miracles, and had sent the article to the Echo by express post. He reckoned it should have got there by now. He had given the Dewars’ number, but Pugh had not phoned. Jasper was still hopeful, though, and he would call Pugh today.
He was staying at the Dewar family apartment in Washington. It was a big place in a swanky building a few blocks from the White House. “My grandfather Cameron Dewar bought this before the First World War,” Woody Dewar explained to Jasper at the breakfast table. “Both he and my father were senators.”
A colored maid called Miss Betsy poured orange juice for Jasper and asked if he would like some eggs. “No, thanks, just coffee,” he said. “I’m meeting a family friend for breakfast in an hour.”
Jasper had met the Dewars at the house in Great Peter Street during the year the family had spent in London. He had not been close to them except, briefly, to Beep, but all the same they had welcomed him to their home, more than a year later, with open-handed hospitality. Like the Williamses, they were casually generous, especially toward young people. Lloyd and Daisy were always happy to accommodate stray teenagers for a night or a week—or, in Jasper’s case, several years. The Dewars seemed the same. “It’s so kind of you to let me stay here,” Jasper said to Bella.
“Oh, you’re welcome, it’s nothing,” she said, and she meant it.
Jasper turned to Woody. “I assume you’ll be photographing today’s civil rights march for Life magazine?”
“That’s right,” said Woody. “I’ll mingle with the crowd, taking discreet candid shots with a small thirty-five-millimeter camera. Someone else will do the essential formal pictures of the celebrities on the platform.”
He was dressed casually, in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, but all the same it would be difficult for such a tall man to be inconspicuous. However, Woody’s revealing news photographs were world famous. “I’m familiar with your work, as is everyone who’s interested in journalism,” said Jasper.
“Does any particular subject attract you?” Woody asked. “Crime, politics, war?”
“No. I’d be happy to cover everything—as you seem to.”
“I’m interested in faces. Whatever the story—a funeral, a football game, a murder investigation—I photograph faces.”
“What do you expect today?”
“No one knows. Martin Luther King is predicting a hundred thousand people. If he gets that many, it will be the biggest civil rights march ever. We all hope it will be happy and peaceful, but we’re not counting on it. Look what happened in Birmingham.”
“Washington is different,” Bella put in. “We have colored police officers here.”
“Not many,” Woody said. “Although you can bet they will all be at the forefront today.”
Beep Dewar came into the dining room. She was fifteen and petite. “Who’s going to be at the forefront?” she said.
“Not you, I hope,” said her mother. “You stay clear of trouble, please.”
“Of course, Mama.”
Jasper noted that Beep had learned a measure of discretion in the two years since he had last seen her. Today she looked cute, but not especially sexy, in tan jeans and a loose-fitting cowboy shirt—a sensible outfit for a day that might turn disorderly.
She acted toward Jasper as if she had completely forgotten about their flirtation in London. She was signaling that he should not expect to take up where he had left off. No doubt she had had boyfriends since then. For his part, he was relieved that she did not feel he belonged to her.
The last member of the Dewar family to appear at breakfast was Cameron, Beep’s older brother by two years. He was dressed like a middle-aged man, in a linen jacket with a white shirt and a tie. “You stay out of trouble too, Cam,” said his mother.
“I have no intention of going anywhere near the march,” he said prissily. “I’m planning to visit the Smithsonian.”
Beep said: “Don’t you believe colored people should be able to vote?”
“I don’t believe they should cause trouble.”
“If they were allowed to vote, they wouldn’t need to make their point in other ways.”
Bella said: “That’s enough, you two.”
Jasper finished his coffee. “I need to make a transatlantic phone call,” he said. He felt obliged to add: “I’ll pay for it, of course,” though he was not sure he had enough money.
“Go right ahead,” Bella said. “Use the phone in the study. And please don’t trouble about paying.”
Jasper was relieved. “You’re so kind,” he said.
Bella waved that aside. “I think Life magazine probably takes care of our phone bill, anyway,” she said vaguely.
Jasper went into the study. He called the Daily Echo in London and reached Barry Pugh, who said: “Hi, Jasper, how are you enjoying the USA?”
“It’s great.” Jasper swallowed nervously. “Did you get my Smokey Robinson piece?”
“Yes, thanks. Well written, Jasper, but it doesn’t make it for the Echo. Try the New Musical Express.”
Jasper was disheartened. He had no interest in writing for the pop press. “Okay,” he said. Not ready to give up, he added: “I thought the fact that Smokey is the Beatles’ favorite singer might give the interview extra interest.”
“Not enough. Nice try, though.”
Jasper tried hard to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Thanks.”
Pugh said: “Isn’t there some kind of demonstration in Washington today?”
“Yes, civil rights.” Jasper’s hopes rose again. “I’ll be there—if you’d like a report?”
“Hmm . . . Give us a ring if it gets violent.”
And not otherwise, Jasper inferred. Disappointed, he said: “Okay, will do.”
Jasper cradled the phone and stared at it pensively. He had worked hard on the Smokey Robinson piece and he felt the Beatles connection made it special. But he had been wrong, and all he could do was try again.
He returned to the dining room. “I must go,” he said. “I’m meeting Senator Peshkov at the Willard Hotel.”
Woody said: “The Willard is where Martin Luther King stays.”
Jasper brightened. “Maybe I could get an interview.” The Echo would surely be interested in that.
Woody smiled. “There will be several hundred reporters hoping for an interview with King today.”
Jasper turned to Beep. “Will I see you later?”
“We’re meeting at the Washington Monument at ten,” she said. “There’s a rumor that Joan Baez is going to sing.”
“I’ll look for you there.”
Woody said: “Did you say you’re meeting Greg Peshkov?”
“Yes. He’s the half brother of Daisy Williams.”
“I know. The domestic arrangements of Greg’s father, Lev Peshkov, were hot gossip when your mother and I were teenagers in Buffalo. Please give Greg my regards.”
“Of course,” said Jasper, and he went out.
George Jakes entered the coffee shop at the Willard and looked around for Verena, but she had not yet arrived. However, he saw his father, Greg Peshkov, having breakfast with a good-looking man of about twenty who had a blond Beatle haircut. George sat at their table and said: “Good morning.”
Greg said: “This is Jasper Murray, a student from London, England. He’s the son of an old friend. Jasper, meet George Jakes.”
They shook hands. Jasper looked faintly startled, as people often did when they saw Greg and George together; but, like most people, he was too polite to ask for an explanation.
Greg said to George: “Jasper’s mother was a refugee from Nazi Germany.”
Jasper said: “My mother has never forgotten how the American people welcomed her that summer.”
George said to Jasper: “So the subject of racial discrimination is familiar to you, I guess.”
“Not really. My mother doesn’t like to talk about the old days too much.” He smiled engagingly. “At school in England I was called Jasper Jewboy for a while, but it didn’t stick. Are you involved in today’s march, George?”
“Kind of. I work for Bobby Kennedy. Our concern is to make sure the day goes smoothly.”
Jasper was interested. “How are you able to do that?”
“The Mall is full of temporary drinking fountains, first aid stations, portable toilets, and even a check-cashing facility. A church in New York has made eighty thousand sandwich lunches for the organizers to distribute free. All speeches are limited to seven minutes, so that the event will end on time and visitors can leave town well before dark. And Washington has banned the sale of liquor for the day.”
“Will it work?”
George did not know. “Frankly, everything depends on the white people. It only takes a few cops to start throwing their weight around, using billy clubs or fire hoses or attack dogs, to turn a prayer meeting into a riot.”
Greg said: “Washington isn’t the Deep South.”
“It isn’t the North, either,” said George. “So there’s no telling what will happen.”
Jasper persisted with his questions. “And if there is a riot?”
Greg answered him. “There are four thousand troops stationed in the suburbs, and fifteen thousand paratroopers close by in North Carolina. Washington hospitals have canceled all non-urgent surgery to make room for the wounded.”
“Blimey,” said Jasper. “You’re serious.”
George frowned. These precautions were not public knowledge. Greg had been briefed, as a senator; but he should not have told Jasper.
Verena appeared and came to their table. All three men stood up. She spoke to Greg. “Good morning, Senator. Good to see you again.”
Greg introduced her to Jasper, whose eyes were popping out. Verena had that effect on white and black men. “Verena works for Martin Luther King,” Greg said.
Jasper turned a hundred-watt smile on Verena. “Could you get me an interview with him?”
George snapped: “Why?”
“I’m a student journalist. Didn’t I mention that?”
“No, you did not,” George said with irritation.
“I’m sorry.”
Verena was not immune to Jasper’s charm. “I’m so sorry,” she said with a rueful smile. “An interview with the Reverend Dr. King is out of the question today.”
George was annoyed. Greg should have warned him that Jasper was a journalist. Last time George talked to a reporter he had embarrassed Bobby Kennedy. He hoped he had not said anything indiscreet today.
Verena turned to George, and her tone changed to annoyance. “I just talked to Charlton Heston. FBI agents are phoning our celebrity supporters this morning, telling them to stay in their hotel rooms for the day because there’s going to be violence.”
George made a disgusted noise. “The FBI is worried, not that the march will be violent, but that it will be a success.”
Verena was not satisfied with that. “Can’t you stop them trying to sabotage the whole event?”
“I’ll speak to Bobby, but I don’t think he’ll want to cross swords with J. Edgar Hoover on something so minor.” George touched Greg’s arm. “Verena and I have to talk. Excuse us, please.”
Verena said: “My table is over there.”
They crossed the room. George forgot about the sneaky Jasper Murray. As they sat down, he said to Verena: “What’s the situation?”
She leaned across the table and spoke in a low voice, but she was bursting with excitement. “It’s going to be bigger than we thought,” she said, her eyes shining. “A hundred thousand people is an underestimate.”
“How do you know?”
“Every scheduled bus, train, and plane to Washington today is full,” she said. “At least twenty chartered trains arrived this morning. At Union Station you can’t hear yourself think for the people singing ‘We Shall Not Be Moved.’ Special buses are coming through the Baltimore tunnel at the rate of one hundred per hour. My father chartered a plane from Los Angeles for all the movie stars. Marlon Brando is here, and James Garner. CBS is broadcasting the whole thing live.”
“How many people do you think will show up altogether?”
“Right now we’re guessing double the original estimate.”
George was flabbergasted. “Two hundred thousand people?”
“That’s what we think now. It could go higher.”
“I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”
She frowned in irritation. “How could it be bad?”
“We just haven’t planned for that many. I don’t want trouble.”
“George, this is a protest movement—it’s about trouble.”
“I wanted us to show that a hundred thousand Negroes could meet in a park without starting a goddamn fight.”
“We’re in a fight already, and the whites started it. Hell, George, they broke your wrist for trying to go to the airport.”
George touched his left arm reflexively. The doctor said it had healed, but it still gave him a twinge sometimes. “Did you see Meet the Press?” he asked her. Dr. King had been questioned by a panel of journalists on the NBC news show.
“Of course I did.”
“Every question was about either Negro violence or Communists in the civil rights movement. We must not let these become the issues!”
“We can’t let our strategy be dictated by Meet the Press. What do you think those white journalists are going to talk about? Don’t expect them to ask Martin about violent white cops, dishonest Southern juries, corrupt white judges, and the Ku Klux Klan!”
“Let me put it to you another way,” George said calmly. “Suppose today goes off peacefully, but Congress rejects the civil rights bill, and then there are riots. Dr. King will be able to say: ‘A hundred thousand Negroes came here in peace, singing hymns, giving you the chance to do the right thing—but you spurned the opportunity we offered, and now you see the consequences of your obstinacy. If there are riots now, you have no one to blame but yourselves.’ How about that?”
Verena smiled reluctantly and nodded assent. “You’re pretty smart, George,” she said. “Did you know that?”
• • •
The National Mall was a three-hundred-acre park, long and narrow, stretching for two miles from the Capitol at one end to the Lincoln Memorial at the other. The marchers assembled in the middle, at the Washington Monument, an obelisk more than five hundred feet tall. A stage had been set up and, when George arrived, the pure, thrilling voice of Joan Baez was ringing out “Oh, Freedom.”
Jasper looked for Beep Dewar, but the crowd was already at least fifty thousand strong, and not surprisingly he could not see her.
He was having the most interesting day of his life, and it was not yet eleven in the morning. Greg Peshkov and George Jakes were Washington insiders who had casually given him exclusive information: how he wished the Daily Echo was interested. And green-eyed Verena Marquand was possibly the most beautiful woman Jasper had ever seen. Was George sleeping with her? Lucky man, if so.
Joan Baez was followed by Odetta and Josh White, but the crowd went wild when Peter, Paul and Mary appeared. Jasper could hardly believe he was seeing these huge stars live onstage without even buying a ticket. Peter, Paul and Mary sang their latest hit, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” a song written by Bob Dylan. It seemed to be about the civil rights movement, and included the line: “How many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free?”
The audience became even more madly enthusiastic when Dylan himself walked on. He sang a new song about the murder of Medgar Evers, called “Only a Pawn in Their Game.” The song sounded enigmatic to Jasper, but the listeners were oblivious to ambiguity, and rejoiced that the hottest new music star in America seemed to be on their side.
The throng was swelling minute by minute. Jasper was tall, and could look over most heads, but he could no longer see the edge of the multitude. To the west, the famous long reflecting pool led to the Greek temple commemorating Abraham Lincoln. The demonstrators were supposed to march to the Lincoln Memorial later, but Jasper could see that many were already migrating to the western end of the park, probably intent on securing the best seats for the speeches.
So far there had been no hint of violence, despite media pessimism—or had it been media wishful thinking?
There seemed to be news photographers and television cameras everywhere. They often focused on Jasper, perhaps because of his pop-star haircut.
He started to write an article in his head. The event was a picnic in a forest, he decided, with revelers lunching in a sunlit glade while bloodthirsty predators skulked in the deep shade of the surrounding woods.
He strolled west with the crowd. The Negroes were dressed in their Sunday best, he noticed, the men in ties and straw hats, the women in bright print dresses and head scarves; whereas the whites were casual. The issue had widened from segregation, and the placards called for votes, jobs, and housing. There were delegations from trade unions, churches, and synagogues.
Near the Lincoln Memorial he ran into Beep. She was with a group of girls heading in the same direction. They found a spot where they had a clear view of the stage that had been set up on the steps.
The girls passed around a large bottle of warm Coca-Cola. Some of them were Beep’s friends, Jasper discovered; others had simply tagged along. They were interested in him as an exotic foreigner. He lay in the August sun chatting idly to them until the speeches began. By that time the crowd stretched farther than Jasper could see. He felt sure there were more than the one hundred thousand expected.
The lectern stood in front of the giant statue of the brooding President Lincoln, seated on a huge marble throne, his massive hands on the arms of the chair, his beetle brows drawn, his expression stern.
Most of the speakers were black, but there were a few whites, including a rabbi. Marlon Brando was on the platform, brandishing an electric cattle prod of the kind used on Negroes by the police in Gadsden, Alabama. Jasper liked the sharp-tongued union leader Walter Reuther, who said scathingly: “We cannot defend freedom in Berlin as long as we deny freedom in Birmingham.”
But the crowd grew restless and began to shout for Martin Luther King.
He was almost the last speaker.
King was a preacher, and a good one, Jasper knew immediately. His diction was crisp, his voice a vibrant baritone. He had the power to move the crowd’s emotions, a valuable skill that Jasper admired.
However, King had probably never before preached to so many people. Few men had.
He cautioned that the demonstration, triumphant though it was, meant nothing if it did not lead to real change. “Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam, and will now be content, will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.” The audience cheered and whooped at every resonant phrase. “There will be neither rest nor tranquillity in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights,” King warned. “The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.”
As he drew near to the end of his seven minutes, King became more biblical. “We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their selfhood, and robbed of their dignity, by signs stating ‘For Whites Only,’” he said. “We will not be satisfied until justice runs down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.”
On the platform behind him, the gospel singer Mahalia Jackson cried: “My Lord! My Lord!”
“Even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream,” he said.
Jasper sensed that King had thrown away his prepared speech, for he was no longer manipulating his audience emotionally. Instead, he seemed to be drawing his words from a deep, cold well of suffering and pain, a well created by centuries of cruelty. Jasper realized that Negroes described their suffering in the words of the Old Testament prophets, and bore their pain with the consolation of Jesus’s gospel of hope.
King’s voice shook with emotion as he said: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’
“I have a dream that one day, on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood—I have a dream.
“That one day even the state of Mississippi—a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression—will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream.”
He had hit a rhythm, and two hundred thousand people felt it sway their souls. It was more than a speech: it was a poem and a canticle and a prayer as deep as the grave. The heartbreaking phrase “I have a dream” came like an amen at the end of each ringing sentence.
“That my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character—I have a dream today.
“I have a dream that one day down in Alabama—with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification—one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers—I have a dream today.
“With this faith we will be able to hew, out of the mountain of despair, a stone of hope.
“With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.
“With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.”
Looking around, Jasper saw that black and white faces alike were running with tears. Even he felt moved, and he had thought himself immune to this kind of thing.
“And when this happens; when we allow freedom to ring; when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city; we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands . . .”
Here he slowed down, and the crowd was almost silent.
King’s voice trembled with the earthquake force of his passion. “. . . and sing, in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
“Free at last!
“Free at last!
“Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”
He stepped back from the microphone.
The crowd gave a roar such as Jasper had never heard. They rose to their feet in a surge of rapturous hope. The applause rolled on, seeming as endless as the ocean waves.
It went on until King’s distinguished white-haired mentor Benjamin Mays stepped up to the microphone and pronounced a blessing. Then people knew it was over, and at last they turned away reluctantly from the stage to go home.
Jasper felt as if he had come through a storm, or a battle, or a love affair: he was spent but jubilant.
He and Beep headed for the Dewar apartment, hardly speaking. Surely, Jasper thought, the Echo would be interested in this? Hundreds of thousands of people had heard a heart-stopping plea for justice. Surely British politics, with its dismal sex scandals, could not compete with this for space on the front page of a newspaper?
He was right.
Beep’s mother, Bella, was sitting at the kitchen table, shelling peas, while Miss Betsy peeled potatoes. As soon as Jasper walked in, Bella said to him: “The Daily Echo in London has called twice for you. A Mr. Pugh.”
“Thank you,” said Jasper, his heart beating faster. “Do you mind if I return the call?”
“Of course not, go right ahead.”
Jasper went to the study and phoned Pugh. “Did you take part in the march?” said Pugh. “Did you hear the speech?”
“Yes, and yes,” said Jasper. “It was incredible—”
“I know. We’re going all out with it. Can you give us an I-was-there piece? As personal and impressionistic as you like. Don’t worry too much about facts and figures, we’ll have all those in the main report.”
“I’d be happy to,” said Jasper. It was an understatement: he was ecstatic.
“Let it run. About a thousand words. We can always cut if necessary.”
“All right.”
“Call me in half an hour and I’ll put you through to a copy taker.”
“Couldn’t I have longer?” said Jasper; but Pugh had already hung up.
“Blimey,” said Jasper to the wall.
There was an American-style yellow legal pad on Woody Dewar’s desk. Jasper pulled it toward him and picked up a pencil. He thought for a minute, then wrote:
“Today I stood in a crowd of two hundred thousand people and heard Martin Luther King redefine what it means to be American.”
• • •
Maria Summers felt high.
The television set had been on in the press office, and she had stopped work to watch Martin Luther King, as had just about everyone else in the White House, including President Kennedy.
When it ended she was walking on air. She could hardly wait to hear what the president thought of the speech. A few minutes later she was summoned to the Oval Office. The temptation to hug Kennedy was even harder for her to resist than usual. “He’s damn good,” was Kennedy’s slightly detached reaction. Then he said: “He’s on his way here now,” and Maria was overjoyed.
Jack Kennedy had changed. When Maria had first fallen in love with him, he had been in favor of civil rights intellectually, but not emotionally. The change was not due to their affair. Rather, it was the relentless brutality and lawlessness of the segregationists that had shocked him into a heartfelt personal commitment. And he had risked everything by bringing forward the new civil rights bill. She knew better than anyone how worried he was about it.
George Jakes came in, immaculately dressed as always, today in a dark-blue suit with a pale gray shirt and a striped tie. He smiled warmly at her. She was fond of him: he had been a friend in need. He was, she thought, the second-most attractive man she had ever met.
Maria knew that she and George were here for show, because they were among the small number of colored people in the administration. They were both reconciled to being used as symbols. It was not dishonest: though their number was small, Kennedy had appointed more Negroes to high-level posts than any previous president.
When Martin Luther King walked in, President Kennedy shook his hand and said: “I have a dream!”
It was meant well, Maria knew, but she felt it was ill judged. King’s dream came from the depths of vicious repression. Jack Kennedy had been born into America’s privileged elite, powerful and rich: how could he claim to have a dream of freedom and equality? Dr. King obviously felt this too, for he looked embarrassed and changed the subject. Later, in bed, the president would ask Maria where he had taken a wrong step, she knew; and she would have to find a loving and reassuring way to explain it to him.
King and the other civil rights leaders had not eaten since breakfast. When the president realized this, he ordered coffee and sandwiches for them from the White House kitchen.
Maria got them all to line up for a formal photograph, then the discussion began.
King and the others were riding a wave of elation. After today’s demonstration, they told the president, the civil rights bill could be toughened up. There should be a new section banning racial discrimination in employment. Young black men were dropping out of school at an alarming rate, seeing no future.
President Kennedy suggested that Negroes should copy the Jews, who valued education and made their kids study. Maria came from a Negro family who did exactly that, and she agreed with him. If black kids dropped out of school, was that the government’s problem? But she also saw how cleverly Kennedy had shifted the discussion away from the real issue, which was millions of jobs that were reserved for whites only.
They asked Kennedy to lead the crusade for civil rights. Maria knew that he was thinking something he could not say: that if he became too strongly identified with the Negro cause, then all the white people would vote Republican.
The shrewd Walter Reuther offered different advice. Identify the businessmen behind the Republican party and pick them off in small groups, he said. Tell them that if they don’t cooperate, their profits will suffer. Maria knew this as the Lyndon Johnson approach, a combination of cajolery and threats. The advice went over the president’s head: it just was not his style.
Kennedy went through the voting intentions of congressmen and senators, ticking off on his fingers those likely to oppose the civil rights bill. It was a dismal register of prejudice, apathy, and timidity. He was going to have trouble passing even a watered-down version of the bill, he made clear; anything tougher was doomed.
Gloom seemed to fall on Maria like a funeral shawl. She felt tired, depressed, and pessimistic. Her head ached and she wanted to go home.
The meeting lasted more than an hour. By the time it finished, all the euphoria had evaporated. The civil rights leaders filed out, their faces showing disenchantment and frustration. It was all very well for King to have a dream, but it seemed the American people did not share it.
Maria could hardly believe it but, despite all that had happened today, it seemed the great cause of equality and freedom was no farther forward.