The muzak cheerily burbles a Fifties version of "Let it Snow" while outside, real snow pours down on the old stone church that sits at the head of Wall Street beneath a sky the same color as stone.
My co-worker stares out the towering bank windows at the huge descending flakes, until finally he says, "Lotta history, Wall Street, you know?"
I make a non-committal noise.
"You know:" he says, "money, slavery."
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