The market had been climbing for six years straight, and Jack Morrison believed every single day of it.
He believed it in the speakeasies on 46th Street, where the gin was warm and the jazz was loud and men in three-piece suits shouted numbers at each other like gamblers at a racetrack. He believed it in his apartment on Fifth Avenue, where the telephone rang constantly with men offering him deals that sounded too good to be true—which of course they were, but Jack was too busy counting his...
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