Word: gann
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Where the Vice President lives is of small concern to the U. S. Government, which gives him $15,000 per annum and leaves him to find his own quarters. When Vice President Charles Curtis established himself, his official-hostess sister, Mrs. Edward Everett Gann, and Mr. Gann, at the fashionable Mayflower Hotel, Washington busybodies eyed the apartment (foyer, double-sized drawing room, dining room for 26 guests, smoking room, library, four bedrooms, two servants' rooms, kitchen, furnished at a cost of $75,000), ascertained its normal rental ($22,500 per year), and hastily concluded that Mr. Curtis...
...nerves already raw from the public interest taken in his social battle in behalf of Mrs. Gann (TIME, April 15), the Vice President last week exploded on the matter of his Mayflower rent. Said he with hot feeling...
Well did Mr. Gann know that for his wife to reach her eminence, many an official wheel had had to. turn. The Vice President had protested against a State Department ruling which failed to accord Mrs. Gann full recognition (TIME, April 15). The matter was in the hands of Secretary of State Stimson...
Last week Mr. Curtis went to see Secretary Stimson about Mrs. Gann. Sir Esme Howard, British Ambassador and dean of the diplomatic corps, went to see Secretary Stimsori about Mrs. Gann. Secretary Stimson went to see President Hoover about Mrs. Gann. Secretary Stim son saw newsgatherers about Mrs. Gann. To them he gave correspondence which showed what a Statesman he really was - correspondence which passed the whole question of Mrs. Gann's precedence back to the diplomatic corps...
...York Evening Post, always serious on social matters, declared venomously: "A bull-headed Vice President goaded by an ambitious woman can stir up all kinds of a mess. . . . Mrs. Gann is not set in the seats of the mighty by decree of her own country but by the amused complaisance of courteous foreigners. Will this memory spoil the fun of the Vice Presidentess as she looks down from the head of one of those jolly-diplomatic dinners, past six frozen-faced ambassadresses, to where her unrated husband hides at the foot of the board? . . . We devoutly hope...