Fairchild laughed. “Now, you lay off our New Orleans bohemian life; stay away from us if you don’t like it. I
like it, myself: there is a kind of charming futility about it, like—” “Like a country club where they play
croquet instead of golf,” the other supplied for him. “Well, yes,” Fairchild agreed. “Something like that.”William Faulkner, Mosquitoes (1927)
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