Word: dawn
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Just after dawn, the Abilene airport picked up his voice: he was announcing by radio that he planned to crash the plane in a gravel pit and kill himself as soon as he used up his fuel supply. "Everything's all messed up," he cried. For more than three hours his plane circled overhead. Friends flew to Abilene, joined airport and CAA officials in pleading with him by radio to land. Cried Cox: "If you had done what I did, you wouldn't land." At 9:55 Cox put his plane into a dive, hit the ground...
...week to its lowest scale since early October. On the frigid ridges of the central front, where the rain had put a glazed crust on four inches of fresh snow, the temperature dropped to 3° below zero. Enemy patrols were observed in white-clad camouflage. In a pre-dawn snowstorm, the Reds captured some frozen foxholes near "Old Baldy," slipped away after trading machine-gun fire with the allies for an hour...
...yesterday's knickknacks are squirreled away, in the somewhat less haphazard hope that some of them will turn to treasure. The custodians of civilization's attics must be knowledgeable men, able to tell a hawk from a handsaw, for their yesterday goes back to history's dawn, and their attic's room-like their budget -is strictly limited. Peering at relics is an increasingly popular pastime, for mankind is increasingly curious about the past, and its tenacious connection with the present. This is the case for museums...
Francesco never notices her, forgets their anniversaries, buries himself in his work. Time & again she tries to talk to him about the way they are drifting apart, but he shrugs it off with "Marriage is one of the oldest institutions." One early dawn, with patience and reason both gone, Sandra calls out, "Francesco! Help me, Francesco!" He grunts drowsily. "Go to sleep. Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." But for Francesco, tomorrow never comes. Sandra empties a loaded revolver into his back...
...early igth century saloon near the old Puerta del Sol. Here, amid a collection of poets, newsmen, critics, painters, sculptors and bullfight purists, Luis Miguel holds court. From Lhardy's, the court is likely to move to a restaurant for dinner, then to a nightclub to sit until dawn, serious and silent, sipping Scotch & soda and watching the floor show fade. From time to time someone will say something sardonic and there will be quick smiles of agreement. It is like watching a doomed prince and his courtiers...