Word: ate
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...sensitive, edgy, intuitive neurasthenic heroine is really a self-inquisitioner who pares away one after another of life's enigmas without revealing a single motive for her crime. The plaints she registers against the cousin-housekeeper are that she was silent, efficient, clean, ate and slept well, and "was too fat for the house." This is rather like the killer in Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart, who murdered his victim because he could not stand his clouded blue eye. With power and wonder, both Poe and Duras show us that an act may be most distinctively human...
...Valenzuela denies that he is a sorcerer, the Cornell fencing coach may be thinking otherwise. In last year's match against the Big Red, Valenzuela mesmerized the Cornell bench. Calmly drinking a glass of water, he walked up to the scorer's table. After Valenzuela finished the water, he ate the glass itself and walked away. The Cornell coach started screaming, and called the Crimson foilers barbarians. "Hell, I didn't eat the glass," Valenzuela said Monday. "I spat the glass out later, but the Cornell coach never saw me doing that...
...Look, here are the giblets, Nikita. Have you tried them yet?" Khrushchev, knowing that his host wanted some for himself but was afraid to be first, would reply, "Oh, I forgot." The only member of his circle exempt from this tasting ritual was NKVD Chief Lavrenty Beria, who ate only food transported from his own dacha...
...they could flirt with walking girls. In the '20s they flaunted hip flasks, wore raccoon coats, necked in rumble seats, and said, "excuse my dust." In the '30s they sat on flagpoles, danced marathons, leaned on WPA shovels and attended Pink meetings. In the '40s they ate live goldfish and carried books to avoid carrying rifles. In the '50s they staged panty raids, crowded 18 into five-passenger cars, burned rubber and played chicken. In the '60s they let their hair grow, smoked pot, read poetry in the rain, went nude...
...since leaving office 18 months before. He took two strolls, one alone and one with his wife Yvonne, around his beloved nine-acre country estate, La Boisserie (the woodland glade), in the tiny farming village of Colombey-les-Deux-Eglises, 120 miles southeast of Paris. At noon, he ate a robust lunch, topped off by one of his favorite cream pastries and his usual cup of extra-strong coffee. He chatted with a neighboring farmer, René Piot, about fencing an adjoining piece of land that he had recently purchased...