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On the Sunday after the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, I found myself on the roof terrace at the Ned—the elegant, neo-patrician members’ club overlooking the Treasury and National Mall—talking shop with a public affairs executive who manages the advertising spend for one of the town’s trade groups. As inevitably happens during polite conversation in official D.C., our exchange turned to the state of The Washington Post, which has obviously been enduring one of the more dismal chapters in its sesquicentennial history.
