Franklin Roosevelt was in fine fettle. It was St. Patrick's Day: he wore a greenish tweed suit, a green tie, a green ribbon in his lapel; on his desk stood a vase of green carnations, a pot of shamrock. He was pleased at having a big cat to let out of the bagGeneral MacArthur's new command in Australia; and he had something else up his sleeve. He had found one of those sly, semi-scholarly parallels on which he loves to impale his more annoying critics, like marshmallows on a toasting fork. In 168 B.C. the Consul Lucius Aemilius Paulus, about...
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