Even the richest person in the world have no enough money to cover up their miserable lives.

I’m sure I don’t know half the people who come to my house. Indeed, from all I hear, I shouldn’t like to.

And so one more to the wandering road. Beyond Blackheath the highway began a steep and curvaceous descent towards Lithgow, where it skirted along hem of the mountains...

one of those middle-aged mediocrities so common in London clubs who have no enemies, but are thoroughly disliked by their friends;

Written By Oscar Wilde

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