The rain in New York doesn't wash anything clean. It just makes the dirt...
She sat at her desk in the newsroom of the New York Herald, staring at the blank page in front of her. Her column ran every Thursday—"The Palette"—and it was supposed to be about art. In practice, it was about the people who bought art, the people who sold art, and the people who lied about both. "Still blank?" asked Mickey Doyle, the art editor, leaning over her shoulder. He smelled of gin and...
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