Word: darked
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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This isn't quite the way some of her Oklahoma City friends recall it. Pearl, as they unfeelingly refer to her, did not come to Oklahoma until 1906, they say, when she was a full-blown, dark-haired woman of 25. Her father, William B. Skirvin, was a farm-implement salesman, a brash, stubby little cockerel of a man, who left Sturgis, Mich, and headed for the thriving Southwest. Like many another boomer, he set up in real estate in Galveston, Tex., then made a killing around Alta Loma, 18 miles north. Oldtimers are still bitter about that. Wrote...
...shadowed her to Manhattan's upper West Side. There she met a stocky, stern-eyed man in a dark overcoat and hat. For an hour and a half, without a betraying sign of recognition, they scurried by subway and bus around crowded Manhattan in an old familiar technique for shaking off shadowers. Finally, under the rumbling Third Avenue elevated, on the squalid lower East Side, the FBI agents closed in, arrested both of them. In Judith's purse was a thin, flat package. It contained, said the FBI, typewritten notes abstracted from confidential U.S. documents...
Disbelieving Mother. The man in the dark coat was Valentin A. Gubichev, 32, a Russian engineer, who came to the U.S. in 1946 as a United Nations employee, assigned to help build its new Manhattan headquarters. The two of them, said the FBI, had already held previous "clandestine meetings." The Russian and the girl from Barnard were charged in Federal Court with conspiring to steal U.S. documents. In Washington, the Russian embassy loudly demanded the release of Gubichev. But the U.N., acting quicker, had already suspended the Russian, said that his U.N. job gave him no diplomatic immunity. When they...
...Correspondent Morley Cassidy of the Philadelphia Bulletin reported last week from Stockholm: "It is beginning to seem awfully lonesome up here on the Baltic. Fingering its boy scout knife, Sweden is noticing that the woods all of a sudden seem to be getting terribly dark...
...Michael & the Zoot-Suits. Ash Wednesday Eve I drove through the most devastated streets of Munich, through rubble lanes barely wide enough for a car to pass, to a factory standing in darkness. We climbed a rickety outside stairs to a second-floor door that opened into a garish six-room apartment, slyly constructed by the factory owner in violation of housing laws. Our monocled host greeted us with tipsy cheeriness as his guests oohed and aahed over his gay shirt pasted with cutouts of Esquire girls. Inside the rooms were assembled, in monstrous taste, old tapestries, carved Italian statues...