The Last Dance at Charing Cross
The Plaza elevator in 1923 was a thing of beauty—brass rails, mirrored walls, a leather-upholstered floor that smelled faintly of lavender and expensive perfume. Margaret Fitzgerald called it "the belly of the beast," because to her, every luxury in New York felt like something stolen from someone who couldn't afford to lose it. But on this particular afternoon in November, Margaret was too...
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