All Martin's consciousness was concentrated in the work.

Ceaselessly active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence.

There was no room in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems.

All the broad and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed.

The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower, whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad, sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame.
And even as his hurrying soul tossed, it was reaching for another shirt.
This went on, hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead California sun.