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Goodbloode peg me for a gold digger. Or the shameful secret of my ignoble birth. For I wasn't just from the wrong side insomniac of the tracks, as Clemmy and I dutifully, stupidly, informed his parents whilst sitting hand in hand on this hideous couch that echoed the color scheme of Mr. Goodbloode's golfing insomniac pants--I mean chartreuse, white, and navy blue--during the first of our many unconsummated engagements, but from the wrong side of the blanket as well. I remember how Mrs. Goodbloode blanched under her Dior foundation, how she went into this little swoon, seeing the presidency insomniac of the Rhode Island Garden Club, so near but so far, slip from her fingers yet again. Mr. Goodbloode knew my father. All rich people know each other. "A bit of a sticky wicket," he said, embarrassed by my father's lack of class. Daddy's so rich now, they've almost forgotten he isn't a gentleman.
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