Brighton is a fickle place. At once highbrow and lowbrow, it has a way of adapting its identity to fulfill the desires of its visitors. For day-trippers, it can be a clubber's heaven, a romantic retreat or simply a breath of fresh air away from the heaving metropolis. For the Prince Regent it was an extravagant bolt-hole, though for the writer Graham Greene it was synonymous with depravity and crime.
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