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He was a very homely man - by that I mean “homely” in the old-fashioned, New England sense. He was peculiarly unattractive in personal physical appearance. His only good point was his eyes. He had the eyes of a spaniel - pleading eyes. If you looked right at him, anybody, man or woman, tended to have a little pity and a natural desire to help him. But if you just looked at him as a whole he seemed very unattractive. He had not been accustomed, therefore, to adulation. He'd been Baruch's Number 3 man. He had been knocked around a good deal. I think he always longed to be loved. He always longed to be admired. He always longed to be the center of the gang, one of the boys, really on the inside of an integrated group. He longed to be taken for what he was and made much of.

For the first time in his life, as I gathered from talking with people who had been his associates both in the Army, in Baruch's organization, in business, in personal friendships, and in his family life, he had this adulation. He wasn't accustomed to walking down the street and having the people cheer, as they did when he went to NRA parades in New York, Boston, Chicago, Dublin, New Hampshire, and places like that. That was all new to Hugh. He wasn't accustomed to having his hand wrung by poor widow women who worked in the Southern mills, saying, “You saved my