Last Waltz in Greenwich Village
Act I The garret was cold in November, not the clean cold of a winter morning but the damp, lingering cold of a room that had never quite warmed through the summer and had given up trying by early autumn. Daisy Whitmore sat at her small table, a notebook open before her and a pen held loosely in her fingers. The typewriter beside her was an old Underwood that jammed on the letter R and made a...
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