Word: boyish
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Foppish & Fussed-Over. Musorgsky was, wrote Composer Alexander Borodin on first meeting him, "quite boyish, very elegant, the very picture of an officer: brand-new, close-fitting uniform . . . sleek pomaded hair, nails as if carved . . . refined, aristocratic manners, conversation . . . sprinkled with French phrases, rath er affected . . . some traces of foppishness. . . . The ladies made a fuss over him. He sat at the piano and, coquettishly throwing up his hands, played . . . very sweetly and gracefully, while the circle around him buzzed . . . 'charmant, delicieux...
Fresh from trouncing Communists in his own United Automobile Workers, Walter Reuther got up at a National Press Club luncheon in Washington and spoke the mouthful of the week. With a boyish grin, he remarked: "I think Henry is a lost soul. People who are not sympathetic with democracy in America are influencing him. Communists perform the most complete valet service in the world. They write your speeches, they do your thinking for you, they provide you with applause and they inflate your ego as often as necessary...
Radiomen, who vie viciously with one another to decorate their Christmas programs with boughs of Hollywood, admit that they have all been outvied this season by a boyish Roman Catholic priest. The Rev. Patrick Peyton had under his Christmas tree two of radio's choicest sugarplums: his popular, weekly Family Theater (Thurs. 10 p.m., Mutual), with a performance of Anatole France's Our Lady's Juggler, and a special, Peyton-inspired, star-studded dramatization of the Nativity, The Joyful Hour, aired last week...
Abovestairs in his elegant Manhattan saloon, the Stork Club, ex-bootlegger Sherman Billingsley moves with exquisite aplomb. He is the Ward McAllister of café society. He dispenses a magnum of champagne to a favorite here, a fleeting, boyish smile to an attractive décolletage there. And he gives mad, mad gifts to the charmed inner circle of his customers...
...Palaces. The pilots were blond, boyish Clifford Evans, 27, an ex-A.A.F. pilot, and stubby, pot-bellied George Truman*, 39, a veteran flying instructor. Last summer they wangled two used Super Cruiser airframes from Piper Aircraft, engines from Lycoming, Gyrosyn compasses from Sperry and radio, equipment from Bendix. They ripped out the passenger seat behind the pilot's seat and installed 100-gallon tanks, packed in a few charts, radio spares, a can of dope (i.e., glue) for repairing the wing fabric, one good suit and a white shirt apiece. Early in August, they kissed their wives goodbye...