A sad-eyed Negro in blue stood on a velvet-draped stage of the American Art Association, Anderson Galleries in New York last week with his arms full of Sardinian snaphaunces. The auctioneer droned along in his pulpit: "Five, do I hear seven-fifty? Five, do I hear seven-fifty? It's against you in the back of the room. Seven-fifty, do I hear ten" Seven-fifty, do I hear ten—?" All over the room the well-dressed crowd of dealers and socialites signalled their bids with the twitch of a pencil, the jerk of a head. For six...
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