Explore "Hudson River Bracketed" by Edith Wharton on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Hour was modestly housed on an upper floor of a shabby ex- private house; no noiseless lift, plate-glass doors or silver- buttoned guardians led to its threshold. But the typewriter girl in the outer office, who said, no, Mr. Frenside wasn't the editor, but only literary adviser, added that she guessed he was there that morning, and presently returned to show Vance into a stuffy cell full of cigar smoke where Frenside leaned on an ink-spattered table and fixed Vance with his unencouraging stare.
-"Oh, yes--Weston your name is? Well, sit down."