Mr Ronan Farrow, chronicler ex-
traordinaire of exhibitionism's
grownup years, has traced Brett
to a dorm party at Yale, at an
age of legal if not Republican
adulthood. A surviving, dazed
recipient of our Brett's self-
cherishing offer of his play-
thing in her face, has named
herself to Farrow as its un-
receptive hostess. Her memory
is very clear, of his hoisting
up his trousers after the fact,
which will probably exonerate
him on the grounds of respect-
ing its creases. The pants, we
mean. Small wonder, he would go
on to implore Kenneth Starr to
discover how a President had
dealt with the same challenge:
an entirely sensible preoccu-
pation in a pillar of the Law.
All of which leads one to hope,
when the present unpleasantness
is past, our Brett will enjoy
the recompense which is his due.
A good stiff one, on the House.
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