Veterans in various stages of khaki dress and nervousness walked into a massive grey building on Manhattan's noisy Seventh Avenue. They came singly and in pairs, in tow of wives, sweethearts, mothers, fathers. On the ninth floor they found a friendly receptionist who took them in hand, ushered them into a pastel green haven with a fascinating array of gleaming gadgets and tweedy psychiatrists. The psychiatrists worked swiftly and efficiently. By nightfall 180 troubled veterans had spilled their principal worries, trooped out. Scrawled on the wall outside was an eloquent parting shot:...
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