Word: bred
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...with wit and wind, fact and fancy, rancor and fellowship, democracy worked its special ferment in Great Britain. At the campaign's halfway mark, big things like the Big Four meeting, little things like a drop in the price of tea, bred confidence in Tory meeting rooms. The Liberal London News Chronicle reported that in "Labor committee room after committee room, there is the grey admission that half the workers are disheartened, the other half defeatist." There were, of course, Laborites who would deny it. But most of the betting was that unless the wind turned full about, Britain...
...Labor's staunch old familiars ranged out onto the hustings last week to address a country which seemed to be basking in a kind of prosperous complacency. Calm Clement Attlee hastened about in a Humber Hawk chauffeured by his wife Violet, got an affectionate wel come everywhere. City-bred Herbert Mor rison, the party's No. 2, headed for Lancashire with his bride, a Lancashire lass, to try his cockney wit in a strategic voting area where he can now claim kinship. Rebel Rouser Aneurin Bevan careened through the industrial towns and docksides to roll his rich Welsh...
...week before, the Run for the Roses had figured to be a two-horse race. Nashua and Summer Tan would be continuing their thrilling two-year-old feud. But the crowd had taken a fancy to California-bred Swaps. Now he was their 14-5 second choice-high esteem for a colt whose ex-cowboy owner had come to Kentucky in 1933 with $600 in his poke and a yen to buy some brood mares. By 1946 Ellsworth was successful enough to buy a brown horse named Khaled from the Aga Khan, and last week Khaled's son Swaps...
...help him defend the Matsus and Quemoy, and to urge that he get his troops off those islands. They had no such orders and no such intentions. But since Formosa did not know why they were coming, or even how long they planned to stay, the worldwide speculation bred bafflement, anxiety and downright hostility in the Nationalist camp...
...from the psychoanalytic to the nuptial couch through three acts, the play has to detour, go in for vaudeville, toss dull cracks after bright ones, try to make the loud pedal sound like a new tune. The real honors go to Donald Cook. No one so deftly conveys well-bred distaste or alarm-looking as though he has just noticed a dead horse under the sideboard, or is about to hear a child of six recite...