The Last Vigil of the Jazz Age
The war ended in 1918, but the dead kept coming. Not in the way of body bags and flag-draped caskets—those came home on ships, wrapped in bunting and accompanied by mothers who wept with a pride that tasted like arsenic. No, the dead kept coming in the smaller ways: in the tremor that seized Tom Calloway's right hand when the wind blew from the west, in the way he could not sleep through the...
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