In Manhattan is a dance hall called Roseland. Here, in a ballroom, wide and long, two orchestras manufacture music which substitutes speed and clamor for melody and merriment. Here, with set faces, dances nightly a band of "hostesses." From vaudeville (where they have failed) they come, from little towns that seemed too slow, from little flats that seemed too small. Dancing is no pleasure to them. Dancing is their business. Be it the breath of a drunken sailor that blows warm past their cheeks or the wit of the dullest tomlinson that assails...
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