The Last Script of 1922
The piano stopped. The band struck the final chord of "The Charleston." Smoke curled through the strobe of colored lights in the basement speakeasy, and Clara Beaumont set down her champagne glass with a precision that made the woman next to her—a society editor with powder too thick and eyes too sharp—gaze at her oddly. This was not what Clara was supposed to do. According to the Script, she...
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