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December 2, 2013

Somehow it’s comforting to know that silly rich people were ever thus. Sidney Frances Bateman’s “Self,” treated to a wry revival at the Metropolitan Playhouse, may have been written in 1856, but its high society remains amusingly recognizable: a world of misers and socialites, dandies and ditzes, parvenus and social climbers, whose supposedly excellent breeding excuses their excesses. Middle-aged mean girls spit daggers through their air kisses, and no one will cop to ever having had a grandpa. (If you go back too many generations, after all, some forebear is bound to not have had money.)

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