From the American Scene: Portrait of a Labor Leader
The strenuous life does not seem to have left its mark on David Gordin. A Webster panatella, half of which he chews rather than smokes, punctuates his hard, yet not unpleasant features. Gordin’s clothes always fit well—tailored by Billy Taub, they are the penultimate in Seventh Avenue styles; the four pointed ends of a white hand-rolled handkerchief effectively break the thin vertical pinstripes and his ties show elaborate floral designs. In fact, Gordin, who pronounces his name in the Russian way, Gordin, is virtually indistinguishable from the manufacturers he now includes among his many friends.
Mr. and Mrs. David Gordin live in a well-appointed five-room apartment on West End Avenue; three months of the year they divide between the Oceanside Hotel at Miami and Gross’ Rest House in the Catskills. Gordin is normally an energetic man and his perennial suntan enhances his appearance of good health. Mrs. Gordin is an active member of several ladies’ organizations, and during the war has greatly enjoyed wearing her blue-gray home front uniform.
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