A tremulous smile on his lips, his wrinkled hands shaking, Samuel Insull last week cleaned out his desk. Friends came in to pay their respects. Newspaper reporters stood by. Typical Insullisms on that last sad day:
"I've gone from the bottom to the top and now to the bottom again. I only hope I will be able to keep a roof over my head and care for my wife."
"I have ceased to be newspaper copy. And I am out of public life. ... So I ought to be entitled to privacy."
"Here I go...
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