Word: callas
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Cake Batter. Nobody was working any harder to do it than Hearstling Pro Tern Fannie Hurst. Novelist Hurst, 60, wore a life-sized enamel calla lily, a jade ring as big as a crow's egg, and a jade-and-gold bracelet so heavy that she had to take it off to type her stories. Her journalistic style was equally flamboyant. She mixed metaphors as vigorously as a housewife mixing cake batter: "Even more than the cloak-and-dagger, who-done-it crime of 'grand passion,' the motives here involved strike, straight as the crow flies, into...
...candidates, all in the Class of '51, are: J. David Baumann, William C. Becker, Edmund J. Blake, Jr., Charles D. Bottenfield, David A. Brockway, Alexander J. Calla, Frederick R. Coburn, James N. Douglass, Robert A. Feldman, Frederick M. Fialkow, Roy M. Goodman, William G. B. Graham, John T. Hazel, Arthur Dwight Hyde, Jr., George D. Jackson, Edward R. Kane, Kenneth Keniston, V. Bruce LaSala, William van H. Mason, David G. Nathan, A. Werner Pleus, Roger V. Pugh, Jr., John P. Rice, Jr., Henry M. Silviera, Jr., John Talbot, Jr., Robert E. Tomasello, B. David Waring, and Jeffrey Watkins...
...with fashionable dogs, plain people out for a stroll. Many a piropeador audibly admired the spring styles which spurned the New Look and kept legs before the male eye. Buenos Aires cemeteries, always a favored gathering place for somber Argentines, were unusually crowded, and tombs were cluttered with waxy calla lilies...
Another place had a waisthigh, turquoise-blue floor vase, filled with paper calla lilies, and a great brass Russian samovar for decorations. But it had no icebox, no bed linen, no telephone. The price: $250 a month-$750 in advance plus a deposit of $500-which we would probably not get back. Said the perspiring owner, "Sempre tem vento" (There's always a breeze). "Sempre?" we asked. "Sempre," she replied, daintily wiping her forehead...
...flowers and bird-feeding stations, surrounded by a rusty iron fence. Matthew was a cold-souled, pipe-fondling dispenser of gently eviscerating irony. Valerie's "pale unearthly face was . . . like some silky autumn pod." They were about as capable of love as a stuffed finch and a glass calla lily. Edith was twelve when she came to them, 21 when their death freed her. In all her years with them she had no enduring reason to believe that they felt affection or even pity...