The Cyst of Vanity Fair
The party was in full swing when Richard Van Wyck decided he hated Thomas O'Brien. It was one of those Upper East Side affairs that Richard hosted himself—the kind where the champagne flowed like water and nobody remembered what year it was. Jazz played from a gramophone in the corner. Women in silk dresses laughed too loudly. Men in tailored suits talked about stocks and boats and nothing at...
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