The orchestra was playing "Tell Me, Pretty Maiden" from Florodora when Harry K. Thaw shot Stanford White. The architect, who had started to rise when he saw Mr. Thaw coming toward him, sank back into his chair with an expression of sudden weariness while a tide of slow vermilion spread like spilled wine across the bosom of his evening shirt. That was in June, 1906. Now Harry Thaw has written a book.*
The book itself is, as a criticism, unimportant. Mr. Thaw has attempted to illuminate the lack of morals of the...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
