You would think Jane Clayson was just another ambitious young woman who landed a job in New York City--scrambling to find an apartment, deposited (temporarily) by her employer in what is, truth be told, a pretty crappy office. Inoffensive museum posters hang on the wall; the painted metal and laminate desk is bare of much but a Poland Spring bottle and a phone; a generic screen saver plays across the monitor of a generic PC. In the middle of an interview, her phone rings. And rings. She rises apologetically and answers it herself. "It's what I'm used to doing," she says.
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