Word: bedded
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...night last week a little brown-haired woman, shy and mild of manner, went quietly to her bed in a small private room inside the locked doors and barred windows of the Arizona State Hospital for the insane. Not till 11 o'clock next morning did attendants jerk down the covers to see why 34-year-old Winnie Ruth Judd wasn't up & about. They found rags, shoes, bottles, soap neatly arranged as a Mrs. Judd-size dummy, but no Mrs. Judd...
...child over three years old cannot hold his water, the child and the water should be examined." In most cases, the Lancet continued, the cause of bed-wetting is not physiological but psychological. "If the parent or guardian believes that (in Mr. Churchill's inspiring phrase) 'we have only to persevere to conquer,' she will communicate her belief. She will see also that the child has no fluids to drink after five o'clock, that he empties his bladder before he gets into bed, and that he is roused to void completely again at a later...
When such "simple methods" are not enough, the Lancet prescribed one-quarter to two grains of ephedrine sulphate at bedtime, depending on the child's age and bed-wetting capacities. "Tincture of belladonna is useful . . . given in amounts of ten minims [drops] for the younger child, and 15 minims for the older, half an hour before bedtime. The dose is increased weekly by five minims until eneuresis stops...
...Count Leon's (Melvyn Douglas) smart bachelor apartment, Ninotchka shocks his staid old butler by asking, "Does he beat you?" and by urging that all wealth be shared equally. As the butler indignantly refuses to share his lifetime savings with his bankrupt employer, she says: "Run along to bed, little father." When the Count makes love to her while a traffic cop is tooting his whistle, grimly scientific Ninotchka asks: "What is the interval between his whistles?" Her disintegration begins when she discards her semimilitary outfit, buys the most becoming hat she can find, which looks like a horse...
Soon it appears that what was intended as an absolutely honest autobiography has turned into a fearlessly candid biography of his wife. A social worker, lecturer and minor fiction writer, Edith was not (as Daudet said the wife of a writer should be) a feather bed. Petite, restless, intense, she scolded at Havelock's manners, dress, undemonstrativeness, called him a mixture of satyr and Christ, alternated between tantrums and protestations of undying love. "The worst of me is in my tongue," she reassured him, but once she kicked him in the head. He discovered strong homosexual tendencies...