Chabon Character ID

The rancid smoke still clung to her pressed silken overcoat, freckles of a soon-to-be downpour already sunken into shoulders that seemed impossibly pulled back and tight like the graying knot cemented to her knobby neck, the shadow that fell on her face covered the splay of wrinkles that threatened to force their way to consciousness from between Margaret Haste’s flagrant eyes. The harsh woman looked, scornfully, at the recently acquired intern who had yet to engage in the inevitable squabble Margaret evoked with every being who dared face the printer that stood menacingly at the corner adjacent to her desk. The structured piles of marked documents rested on the corner of Margaret's desk, a pen, stone paperweight, office-issued dial phone, and dusted desktop computer the only other items that gambled to intrude on Margret Haste's sacred site of work. Not even the aged photo of her too-old children had earned its place. Type, write, print, edit, print, type, highlight. The woman's enunciated aura was not lost to a soul in the office, Margaret's distinctly upturned nose, unsurprisingly, staring onlookers in the eye. The woman's skirt made a dissonant noise as its arthritic fabric bent under the pressure of her descending body, her desk chair en bois settling back into the legs' respective cavities in the floor.