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The Night the World Didn t End
Joan Holloway sat alone in her West 12th Street apartment, a half filled glass of scotch in her hand. It had not been the thirty-one year old redhead’s first drink of the evening and she was certain it wouldn’t be her last. Only a small lamp to her left illuminated the room, the semi-darkness around her made even more encroaching by the absence of either the radio or television. On those rare Saturday nights when she was home alone, one of those was usually on to help her ignore that fact. The...