“In a city that made architectural judgments of people's worth and eccentricities, the house was a fitting residence for a banker turned newspaper owner. Mr. Parker, George Albert--it was his statement of himself to have others think of him in terms of three names--was solidly built, a pocket watch and Phi Beta Kappa key always displayed on the vested, large expanse of belly. If this wasn't enough to make his antecedents suspect, there were always the pince-nez glasses and the high black shoes t...hat attested to his resistance to contemporary styles, as if pre-World War I were his permanent era. Nick's first brief view of him with the oak panelling as background in the library of his home, standing near a crackling fire, one hand on the edge of a leather winged chair, dark pinstriped vested suit, pince-nez removed but visible in the fingers of his right hand, had given him a completeness of view that subsequent casual encounters could never erase. "Father, this is Nick Gold, a newspaperman friend of Charlie's," Myra had said, as if the identification as a newspaperman were necessary ingratiation.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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