Word: confessed
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...HAVE, I must confess, serious doubts about the efficacy--or even the integrity--of the "classic" exam period editorial, "Beating the System," you reprinted recently. I almost suspect this so-called "Donald Carswell '50" of being rather one of Us--the bad guys--rather than one of you. If your readers have been following Mr. Carswell's advice for the last 11 years, then your readers have been going down the tubes. It is time to disillusion...
...confidence in an ultimate allied victory, Bush now admits that he had some doubts about the U.S. forces' ability to carry out his intentions with the devastating efficiency his commanders claimed. "I've got to confess that I wondered, when ((Air Force Chief of Staff)) Tony McPeak came up to Camp David and briefed me on what we could do with air power. I turned to ((National Security Adviser)) Brent Scowcroft or somebody; I said, 'Does this general know what he's talking about? I mean, this is awesome.' " Later, after McPeak had visited the U.S. staging ground in Saudi...
...action -- don't ask how -- to enable his beloved to escape prison and flee to Philadelphia. The scheme depends on selling her diamond necklace, which changes hands roughly as often as the Rhine gold. In the end Marie decides to accept her grisly historical fate, though she does confess that she has fallen in love with Beaumarchais...
Come on, my fellow white folks, we have something to confess. No, nothing to do with age spots or those indoor-tanning creams we use to get us through the | winter without looking like the final stages of TB. Nor am I talking about the fact that we all go home and practice funky dance moves behind drawn shades. Out with it, friends, the biggest secret known to whites since the invention of powdered rouge: welfare is a white program. Yep. At least it's no more black than Vanilla Ice is a fair rendition of classic urban...
...clocks in the plazas ring out on these May days, and the three of us confess how fascinated we are by clocks. We admire them, collect them, and feel thus that we own time, or at least the mystery of time, which is to imagine it running backward or speeding us to our meeting with the future, until we reject that idea and define all time as the present: the past that we not only remember but that we imagine, as much as we imagine the future, so that both will have meaning...