Andrew is just as thin as I am fat, and his clothes hang on him in
the most comical way. He is very tall and shambling, wears a ragged
beard and a broad Stetson hat, and suffers amazingly from hay fever
in the autumn. (In fact, his essay on "Hay Fever" is the best thing
he ever wrote, I think.) As he came striding up the road I noticed
how his trousers fluttered at the ankles as the wind plucked at
them. The breeze curled his beard back under his chin and his face
was quite dark with anger. I couldn't help being amused; he looked
so funny.
"The Sage looks like Bernard Shaw," whispered Mifflin.