The train from Cleveland arrived at Grand Central Station at seven in the morning, and Vivian Cross
She was twenty-two years old, and she had never been farther from home than Cincinnati. New York hit her the way a wall of warm air hits you when you open an oven door—immediate, enveloping, and full of things she could not yet identify but could smell. Jazz drifted from a saloon on Forty-second Street. The smell of roasting coffee mixed with horse manure and coal smoke. A newsboy was shouting...
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