“… the love of Paris is an insidious disease, breaking out when its victim least looks for it.” I love this line from Edith Wharton’s “The Lamp of Psyche.” Especially as I sit in this very early post July-4 morning, in the reading room’s alleged quiet, breezed by the new fan, only to be clobbered by the beep-beep-beep of a backing-up tractor, a chain saw, an undetermined clanking, as the lot across the street rebecomes a work zone.

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