The speakeasy smelled of gin and rebellion, and Catherine Wheeler stood at its edge, feeling every inch the intruder in a man's world made slightly less exclusive by a woman's presence.
She had dressed carefully: a flapper's dress in deep navy with silver beads that caught the low light, a short bob that said modern but not too modern, stockings that cost half a week's salary. She looked like every other young woman at this Long Island party—beautiful, bored, decorative. But her notebook was in her clutch, filled with equations she had written during a lecture on quantum...
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