And still they came, the undergraduate ants in streaming lines from railroad stations, trolley stops, subway kiosks and country roads. Into their hills they scuttled and out again, back and forth to the bookstore, the stadium, the lecture hall, the soda fountain, the library, the bootlegger's, the chapel. (I ΒΆ At Yale University, not as many entered Battell Chapel as formerly in the drowsy, blink-eyed crack of dawn (8 a. m.). Unmoved by years of protest against enforced religious observance, but compelled by the physical limitations of their spiritual edifice, the Yale...
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