The Story That Contained Itself
Danbury, Connecticut, 1956. The suburban sprawl smelled of freshly cut grass and cigarette smoke, the two aromas merging in the humid August air to create a scent that was distinctly American, distinctly postwar, distinctly built on the assumption that tomorrow would be better than today and today was already better than yesterday. Robert Shaw lived in a colonial on Hemlock Drive with a wife...
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