My brother, Henry, has an excellent job at a bank. I couldn't (1) him (2) he told me that he had decided to give it (3) . Though I tried to make him (4) his mind, I failed (5) . "You should reconsider your decision," I said. "You have already spent five years (6) the bank and you could have a wonderful (7) . You might become a bank manager (8) the time you're thirty-five." "I know," Henry answered. "I've got no complaints (9) the bank. It's a(n) (10) job in pleasant surrounding and we keep civilized hours. The bank manager told me that my (11) were excellent." "Then why do you want to leave?" I (12) . "It's (13) money," Henry said. "But you're getting a good (14) ." I answered. "I don't (15) that," Henry said. "What do I do at the bank? Well, at the moment (16) I do is to count money. I find it very (17) ." "What's depressing about counting money?" I asked, unable to (18) the logic of Henry's argument. "You don't understand," Henry answered. "I enjoy (19) my own money, (20) I hate counting other people's!"