It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance.
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