The Grit of Reality
The breadline stretched three blocks. Mary O'Connor stood at the back, her hands in her coat pockets, her breath visible in the cold air. It was January 1933, the coldest winter Chicago had seen in twenty years, and the line moved so slowly that Mary had stopped counting how long she had been standing. The man in front of her was tall and thin, wearing a coat that was too light for the weather....
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