East of Third Avenue, Manhattan's 107th Street is a live and crawling thing. Sometimes, late at night, it is almost still. But even when the wretched houses stare poker-faced at nothing in the dark, fetid street there is still a strong sense of the hot, swart, teeming Italians inside. In the winter, 107th Street is piled with refuse and dirty snow. In the summer the sun beats down until it bubbles the tar. Thick, bad odors cling in the crannies, clutch at the passerby.
Life in 107th Street reaches its noisiest, most ebullient phase after the dinner hour. Fat, oily women,...
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