The Pattern in the Fortune
The first time Julian Blackwell broke down in my office, he was crying and laughing at the same time. It was an unsettling sight—a man in his early thirties, well-dressed and articulate, sitting on my leather sofa with his face in his hands, making sounds that were half-sob, half-laugh, like a machine that had malfunctioned in a way that could not be repaired. "I have to spend it," he said,...
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