The parties were bacchanals of bad taste, and Stephenson spared no expense. Once through the classical columns of the mansion’s white portico, guests left behind everything they professed to stand for in anticipation of a night like no other in Indiana. The evenings started out classy. White-gloved servants handed out drinks and finger foods. There were proper toasts and proper introductions. Troupers from a musical revue entertained and a small orchestra played in the ballroom. You were sure to see politicians, perhaps a federal judge, or someone from the Indianapolis baking company that
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