Word: aloofness
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...majority of black people across the country are staying with Carter. Some of them are shaky, but they're willing to forgive him. He's got a kind of thing about him that says to them, I don't hate you. I'm not aloof from you.' But there is suspicion. People are just waiting to see-is this a pattern? If it is, he could lose them overnight...
...lien, commander of the Peking military district, a member of the Politburo and widely regarded as the country's most powerful general. In the past, the army often favored the kind of moderation practiced by Chou and Teng. The fact that it is staying aloof from the current struggle may be bad news for Mao and his radical supporters...
Rising Star. There were surprises in Callaghan's other Cabinet shifts. As Foreign Secretary, the P.M. chose Environment Secretary Anthony Crosland, 57, an aloof, cerebral party theoretician with credentials in economics rather than foreign affairs. The favorite had been Home Secretary Roy Jenkins, but Callaghan's heart is more in the relationship with Washington than with the EEC, whereas the eloquent, sophisticated Jenkins is an ardent pro-Marketeer. Expectations are that Callaghan may nominate Jenkins for presidency of the European Commission when it is Britain's turn to head it next January...
...stinking feromones of pretension that those in fine clothes puffed from cigars or had daubed beneath their ears and about their necks. Those were the things you had sense during the party; you had seen the exasperation patterned across a friend's face, whiffed the perfume from an aloof Wellesley woman(wearing the Art Deco print shirt with the picture of slim men sipping cocktails under palms) and then even asked her to dance, and been snubbed. And they had carried all that out with them when they left, ditching only their butts, sweat and lashes. All that went...
...feet above the crowd, nearly nude, brandishing a large glimmering orange cape. A dark oval beauty-mark is stencilled on the front of his thigh. He thinks about how hot it is under the lights. Up here on the smooth plaster cylinder he is safe; it is his turf, aloof, contained. Despite the energy of his grinding movements, no emotion glides over his soft face and glazed eyes. Perhaps he imagines that there is a razor-tin glass wall around his little world that keeps out the fat curls of smoke and perfume and breath thickened with alcohol. Here...