IT'S AT THE Metropolitan Club, just a block from Lafayette Square where Andrew Jackson, prancing above the flower beds on his bronze horse, perpetually takes off his hat to the White eat that official Washington likes best to be seen eating lunch. There, almost every day when he's in town, promptly at 1 arrives a spare, neatly dressed individual with dark hair and eyes and the restrained impatience of manner of a man whose every moment is very, very valuable. In his 63 rd year, Walter Lippmann still looks the precocious young deep...
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