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how to make money with a math degree

Release date: 2022-12-07 11:13:28 Author:oKzbKfBU

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

I'll buy it immediately.

That's a complicated question requiring a long answer.

We'll take as little of your time as possible. Perhaps we should begin with the telephone call.

He was very happily married. He adored his wife. And then, quite abruptly, she left him, ran off with another man. To say that Grove was devastated is not saying enough. He was destroyed. And he focused his anger on God.

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

Jeremy Grove and I go way back. We met at Columbia as students many years ago. I went on to the priesthood, and he went to Florence to study art. In those days, we were both-well, I wouldn't call us religious in the usual sense of the word. We were both spirituallyintrigued . We used to argue to all hours of the morning about questions of faith, epistemology, the nature of good and evil, and so forth. I went on to study theology at Mount St. Mary's. We continued our friendship, and a few years later I officiated over Grove's marriage.

Quite all right. I just hope I can be of help. This is a tragic business.

I see, murmured Pendergast.

Is that so I love detective stories. Give me a title.

As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning-the answering machine registered the time-but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn't home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising-it's a violation of the rules, but I've got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late.

Grove felt betrayed by God. He became . . . well, you certainly couldn't call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic-except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution.

Pendergast nodded at him to proceed.

Pendergast nodded.

I sincerely apologize for this intrusion, said Pendergast.

Indeed. Anyway, while living in Florence, Grove had become quite devout. In an intellectual kind of way, as some people do. He loved to engage me in discussion. There is, Mr. Pendergast, such a thing as a Catholic intellectual, and that was Grove.

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

We'll take as little of your time as possible. Perhaps we should begin with the telephone call.

An interesting story, Sergeant. He bought a painting at an auction at Sotheby's that was billed as being by a late follower of Raphael. Grove was able to prove it as the hand of the master himself, turned around and sold it for thirty million dollars to the Met.

Angels of Purgatoryis his latest.

We'll take as little of your time as possible. Perhaps we should begin with the telephone call.

I sincerely apologize for this intrusion, said Pendergast.

Angels of Purgatoryis his latest.

I see, murmured Pendergast.

I'll buy it immediately.

I see, murmured Pendergast.

You're right there, said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

Pendergast nodded at him to proceed.

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