There is, in Manhattan, a softspoken, smoothly tailored little man, with the warmest of hearts, the mildest of blue eyes, the suavest of manners, the nicest of English accents, and the attitude toward lifeso far as you would guess to hear him purring of Señor Zuloaga's portraits or the latest
Negroid cabaret in Harlemof one sitting comfortably back in a downy, plushy divan. He seems so happy.
Yet he is not altogether happy. Every month he has to worry his head and fret and fuss over what there is new to divert gay, witty,...
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