PATCHIN PLACE is a little street of three-story brick houses, with an iron gate at one end and a fence at the other, in Manhattan's Greenwich Village. From this street, where the tree of heaven which also grows in Brooklyn thrusts bravely upward from narrow sidewalks, a man emerges almost every day bound for Washington Square, a few blocks away. A weathered hat rides high on a head seeking to soar from squared shoulders loosely draped in an old jacket, from the left pocket of which protrudes a notebook. The face under the hat takes daylight as though it...
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