Guests at James and Marcia Burnham’s dinner table during the 1930s were often interrupted by a knock on the door.
One minute they’d be talking in a tony Manhattan apartment. The next they’d be watching Burnham, dressed in formal attire, huddle with a seedy-looking fellow in the entryway. The two would exchange conspiratorial gossip. Suddenly the stranger would depart, and Burnham would return to his friends, acting as if nothing had happened. The party would go on.
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