1912. American newspaperman and novelist McCutcheon's book begins: The train, which had roared through a withering gale of sleet all the way up from New York, came to a standstill, with many an earsplitting sigh, alongside the little station, and a reluctant porter opened his vestibule door to descend to the snow-swept platform: a solitary passenger had reached the journey's end. The swirl of snow and sleet screaming out of the blackness at the end...
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