When Samuel Pepys galloped from London to Stevenage, he noted in his diary: "Mighty merry . . . a coney [rabbit] skin in my breeches preserves me perfectly from galling." Last week, riding the same 28 miles on the comfortable cushions of his car, gloomy Lewis Silkin knew that there would be no merriment in Stevenage for him, that before he got out of town he might well need a coney skin of his own.
Hostile faces stared as he climbed out of his car. Signs—"Hands off our Homes" —glared at him. Nervously he...
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