She soon slipped into a Bohemian life — sharing a hotel apartment for a time with a young gay man, Greer Johnson; joining him in nightly searches for good jazz in the clubs on West 52nd Street, where she got to know, among others, Billie Holiday; and scraping by on fellowships and family help — a life, as she later wrote in her semi-autobiographical novel “Sleepless Nights,” signified by “love and alcohol and the clothes on the floor.”
I don't ask that you love her, although I do, but please at least consider her.
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