On the north side of Atlantic City, N. J., fringing the smoke-blackened Pennsylvania railroad yards, row on row of frame houses slouch over the street like ragged standees at a free-lunch counter. In the daytime, almost no one can be seen along that street, but at night the doors of the rickety houses open and the occupants come forth. Their black faces blend adeptly with the night; their bodies are blurred shadows in doorways, or lazy silhouettes revealed where street-corner bars and laundries drip golden honey into the darkness. They seem not to have...
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