Russell the dirty old man
Years ago I read an account by the late Alistair Cooke about a woman of his acquaintance who still shuddered at the recollection of an interlude in the back seat of a car with the philosopher. Not trusting myself to paraphrase, I have retrieved it:
During his wartime stay in Princeton, when he was in his early seventies, the groves of academe were flustered by rumours of Lord Russell’s goatish ways. One lady whose testimony is to be trusted made the shivering confession that the groping of the noble lord in an automobile conveyed the sensation of “dry leaves rustling up your thighs.”cordially,