Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. Beethoven; he’s the best of them. There he was, standing with a group of men who she presumed to be the other richest men in the world. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men! He relaxed.
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