Last week in Manhattan, a jolly little round-faced man walked into the lobby of a small, sooty-red downtown office building, No. 13 Astor Place, and told the elevator boy that he wanted to get off at the tenth floor. Smiling, happy he went down a long, dim hall, entered a little office filled with the stinging smell of turpentine which painters had finished swabbing only the night before. He noticed and was pleased with a vase of roses—"from the Executive Staff"—on a shiny new desk. He...
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