Even in the seclusion of our Chappaqua home we can't escape the prying eyes and ears of Secret Service agents who loiter on our street in a 'cable' van and delight in leaking cheap gossip about everyday life at Chez Clinton and our supposed fondness for cusswords, speaking of which: "Is that you, Bill? Maria's gone home and I'm not f____ing cooking for you. You'll have to order in from the Kittle House..."
