The air was cleaner in Irvington than the capital city’s factory haze, filtered by thick-armored hardwood trees that had taken up residence centuries ago. One native oak was nearly four hundred years old, and had such a leafy hold on the sky that it was given landmark status. Every house on the broad, winding lane had a story to tell, just like the village’s namesake, Washington Irving. The writer of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle” was honored with a bust in a hushed circle off the avenue. Surely unknown to Stephenson, he had chosen to live in a town with a heritage of
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