"Say, who in hell you think you are, J. P. Morgan?"3 "No," said Tom.
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Within two months of my dinner at the Barbours’, Kitsey and I were seeing each other every day practically —long walks and dinner (sometimes Match 65 or Le Bilboquet, sometimes sandwiches in the kitchen) and talking about old times: about Andy, and rainy Sundays with the Monopoly board ("you two were so mean …. it was like Shirley Temple against Henry Ford and J. P. Morgan ….