The Sapphire Hour
The Sapphire Hour ACT I The speakeasy beneath the Village bakery smelled of gin and wet wool, and Kit Whitfield arrived with both in her coat. She had taken the train from the edge of New Jersey on a Thursday in early autumn 1924, carrying a valise with two changes of clothes, a fountain pen, and the conviction that a woman with two good references and a man's first name could pass as more...
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