CORRUPTION: No Yellow Necktie

There was no doubt that the attic room was stuffy. Dice that have felt the sweat of men's hands, cards that are grimy on the edges and sticky on the faces, fiction magazines and cigarets that have been consumed, bedclothes that have been kicked into contortions—do not litter a rose garden. One dozen men were in this attic room; they had lived there for three weeks; they needed haircuts. One night last week, eleven of them were trying to sleep; the other one played a phonograph malignantly, said he would never let them...

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