The champagne bubbles rose through the glass like tiny stars escaping a dying sky.
Henry Calloway watched them from across the ballroom of the Hotel Majestic, where three hundred of New York's most desperate people were dancing the night away in preparation for a future that might not arrive. The orchestra played Gershwin—Henry had never understood why a man who wrote about the cold northern wind of a winter subway car could also write something that made grown men weep with...
0 التعليقات 0 المشاركات 3 مشاهدة 0 معاينة