Word: clankingly
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Above the hum of eulogy and the clank of banquet silverware, two Republican voices sounded most clearly.* One was Governor Tom Dewey's. In Boston, in a speech on foreign policy, he laid low once & for all the charge that he is unwilling to take a stand on crucial campaign issues. He endorsed the Marshall Plan to the "full sum which has been requested," called for internationalization of the Ruhr and the immediate economic unity of Europe. He also blasted the Democrats for "the policies which resulted in surrendering 200 million people in Middle Europe into the clutches...
...repelling suits of armor, I'm sure the money-mad creators of fashion will once again create as we desire. I for one could not stand to see my lovely little wife turning blue as she gasped for air in a laced vise, nor would I enjoy the clank and clatter of new form-building pads as she tripped lightly by. Let the unshapely change their forms at will but I like my wife as is and prefer dresses that show...
...seems hard-pressed to transport the highball-and-cigaret intimacy of his friends' living rooms into the U.S. parlor. His cement-mixer voice strains with eagerness to wow the audience. And while most of his parodies and songs are funny, the jokes which string them together sometimes clank (sample: "As for personal habits ... I ain't got none...
...with the docking of the Beaver-burn and the ships that followed her, the waterfront echoes once more to longshoremen's shouts, the clatter & clank of cargo winches unloading woolens, steel, chemicals, motorcycles, automobiles, china and plate glass from across the sea. The ships take back Canadian goods. Last week one ship loaded on 1,071 cases of Canadian whiskey for Britain. "That's for us poor blokes," sighed a bosun. "They're sending the Scotch over here...
...jungle valleys, back from the southwest shore of Lake Maracaibo, Venezuela, live the world's most determined isolationists: the celebrated Motilon Indians. They are naked, few in number and disunited. Airplanes fly over their territory; the modern machines of U.S. and British oil companies clank around their borders. But the Motilones, not budging an inch, go right on in the old ways: slipping through the tangled jungle, invisible as the wind, silent as their heavy arrows that can slam through a grown man's chest and out the other side...