Word: clatters
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...have forced the government of & Communist Party Chief Najibullah to take precautions within the capital. There are insistent signs of anxiety. Sounds of distant artillery salvos punctuate Kabul evenings like erratic heartbeats. Searchlights rake the surrounding hills in search of rebel infiltrators. In the daytime, armored personnel carriers often clatter through city streets that are patrolled by soldiers armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles...
...miracles here, but there is a collective refusal to succumb to the temptations of self-pity or despair. Betty and Gerald Ford have witnessed some extraordinary changes in life and in politics, and the sounds that now emanate from the Betty Ford Center may be the cheery clatter of the last laugh...
...Boran cattle wear bells that thock and dong and clatter through the forest. The Masai and the cows are so intimately connected that each herdsman knows every cow individually (even, as now, when we are bringing along 140 head) and knows where each will be in the line of march. Moses says the same two white cows always lead the herd, and they do. And the same white cow always comes in last. Moses now and then quite tenderly browses with his hands over one of his animals and pulls off ticks, an act of love. Herding cows is infinitely...
...willing to spend a couple of evenings in Preston's numbing company if doing so will let him put off thinking about that oral surgery or those dunning letters from school. What overstrains Forsyth's vehicle to the point of collapse, when other thrillers no less dim clatter on dependably to their conclusions, may be that the author has weighty ideological points to make. His first intention is not to write an entertainment but to preach a political sermon. Its burden is that leftists and peaceniks really are fools whose habitual prating endangers civilization. Forsyth puts forward this...
...ugly tracks of war seem so commonplace that one no longer takes as much notice of the gutted buildings as of the occasional glimpses of what everyday life must have been like before the bloodshed began. Along the Corniche, the broad, palm-lined boulevard that hugs the Mediterranean, dice clatter across wooden backgammon boards, as groups of men, each with one hand nervously working worry beads, cluster to watch. The clinking of delicate china cups announces the arrival of a coffee vendor proffering thick, black Turkish brew. As Sunday fishermen impatiently flick their lines, a water-skier waves from behind...