This week in the saga

Deep winter, and the halls of the north can no longer hold the movement: twenty-five thousand stand in the Vermont snow for a room that seats a fraction. Across the sea the omens multiply — a gunman inside a Paris police station, disorder in Germany — and he brandishes each one as proof of his warnings. Then a first glance past the primary entirely: a poll says he beats the final general already, and he has not even turned to face her. In passing, the old feud with the press's blonde inquisitor flickers back to life, and he tosses mock legal counsel to the courtier Teddo, whose backers are counting New York gold in the dark.