The Alchemist of Fifth Avenue
The thing about grief in 1924 is that it has nowhere to go. You could not sit in a dark room and weep without someone coming to tell you that Mr. Harrington would have wanted you to be happy. You could not wear black for longer than six months without someone suggesting that perhaps a darker blue would be more becoming. Corinne Whitfield was twenty-five, and the city of New York was full of...
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