Every week the story has tried to find its muse: at first it felt like Sophocles, a tale of charges so dangerous that a second presidency in a generation might go up in flames; later it belonged to Danielle Steel, all heavy breathing and valentines, and by turns Dickens (Who else could have invented the bottom-feeding Mr. Drudge and the nosy Ms. Tripp?) and John le Carre (Starr is now investigating the White House for investigating Starr's investigation of the White House). Last week the City of Fear went completely haywire. A town of people who like to watch the quorum...
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