The champagne was cold, the band was good, and Violet Ashcroft was pretending, with considerable skill, to be someone who belonged at a Long Island party in 1925.

She stood near the punch bowl in a dress that cost more than her entire wardrobe had before the war, watching the other women glide across the dance floor in silk and sequins and the kind of confidence that money buys without effort. They were the daughters of men who had made fortunes out of nothing, or inherited fortunes that felt like nothing, and they moved through the world with the easy...
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