The widow of the twenty-eighth president remained plump and pretty, sitting in a white metal garden chair atop this hotel whose opening she had attended in 1917. He watched Hawk standing over the former first lady, charming her. She was playfully swatting him with a heavily ringed and braceleted hand, its adornments probably having come wholesale from her first husband, Mr. Galt, whose old jewelry store survived a few blocks away. “No,” said Mary. “Fuller was taken to meet the one standing next to her.” Tim noticed a well-tailored blond girl alternating her gaze between Hawk and Mrs. Wilson,
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