It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. I sometimes laid away my father's clothes in his trunk. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. Listen. But the objects in his range of vision remained unchanged.
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