Bill Clinton has never shied away from displays of dewy-eyed, lip-biting sentimentality.
Dowie could scarcely have told what phrase or word at last suddenly brought up before her a picture of the nursery in the house in Mayfair—the feeling of a warm soft childish body pressed close to her knee, the look of a tender, dewy-eyed small face and the sound of a small yearning voice saying: I want to kiss you, Dowie..