The Frequency of Belief
The party at Vanderbilt Manor smelled of gin, gardenias, and the particular brand of desperation that only the newly rich can manufacture. I stood on the terrace, nursing a drink I did not want, watching the guests perform their nightly ritual of becoming someone else for an evening. That was the thing about the Jazz Age: we had learned how to celebrate, but we had forgotten why. Julian Croft,...
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