Word: clacking
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...Clackety-clack, clackety-clack! Clackety-clack, clackety-clack! The train was slowing down now, getting into Providence. Around the curves between the two hills of the city they swerved, and into the station. Queer place, Providence, the Vagabond thought. Old Roger Williams stood on top of the State House dome, gleaming in the sunlight. He was a man too good for Boston, and he'd had to leave. But under his effigy on the State House ruled men like Quinn and O'Hara. And they'd had a lot of trouble with a man named Dorr a hundred years...
...Clackety-clack, clackety-clack! The train was moaning down the line now, headed for New London. They fairly sailed past the little old abandoned way-stations on the line, streaking into Connecticut and full view of the Sound. The water looked lovely today, all blue, with silver around the edges. From Stonington he looked across to Fishers Island, saw the great clubhouse standing out like a white elephant on the opposite shore. That was the house where they'd moved that girls' school a few years ago after its fire. It must be nice to be a schoolgirl, he thought...
...Budd (no kin), many a Burlington and Budd technician, 20 newshawks and one burro boarded Burlington's silvery new high-speed Diesel-powered train. A full third of the way across the continent in Chicago that day, A Century of Progress was opening for its second year. Clackety-clack-streamlined, shovel-nosed Zephyr slid out of the Denver yards at 6.05 a. m. While passengers settled themselves in its three articulated compartments. Zephyr picked up speed. For a while she did not venture over 75 m. p. h. At the last minute a defective armature bearing...
...which includes a knowledge of the latest diggings among Shakespeare's bones. Perhaps Anne Hathaway really was the beautiful and understanding wife Author de Chambrun portrays: perhaps Shakespeare really was mixed up in Papist alarums and Essex' plot; perhaps he went to Scotland and had a fine clack with King James. But Author de Chambrun, though she is a bright lady and writes a conscientious romance, has not the vivifying touch. Readers will get more of an inkling about Shakespeare the man in reading three of his sonnets than by attending 30 such fancy-dress parties...
...their minds that a black sheep has deserted the fold. And through it all the candidate alone remains serene. For him it is not torture, the others just do not understand. He delights in the scoops, he gloats over his interviews with celebrities and thrills to the click-clack of many typewriters at work...