The New Yorker

In Dubuque, Iowa, there lives, doubtless, an old lady. Her existence is recognized only because certain middle-aged people in Manhattan began some weeks ago to think about her. She came frequently into their conversation and, at each allusion, a leer passed round the company—all spoke in derisive terms of her taste, though the kinder-hearted merely pitied her for being the victim of an unfortunate environment.

These people, the agile Pulcinellas of Manhattan's Grub Street,* were outlining the policy of a magazine they had decided to...

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