Word: dears
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...category-making so dear to journalism, the city generally comes under the file marked Problems. The subject suggests TV panels where earnest sociologists talk of urban renewal, of megalopolis, juvenile delinquency, blight, population movement and traffic. The mayors of these vast places seem to spend their time either shaking hands with somebody for the photographers or complaining of their burdens. TIME, a city-made product itself, takes up the subject this week by selecting, but not at random, the mayors of five U.S. cities-New York, Chicago, Boston, Houston and Los Angeles. Its cover story verifies the existence...
...World (for a reported $40,000), Alfie settled back to crack the laws of England. In the course of researching Alfie's abstruse legal quibbles, plump Lila Stuckley, his common-law wife, became a familiar figure in the British Museum's venerable reading room. Said she: "Oh dear. I find it all very difficult. Laws going back to 1742. George II and all that, and that queer language with all those double efs instead of esses." Alfie, to litigation born, delved up enough dusty arguments to sustain a two-year marathon through British courts. His most appealing line...
...Dear Mum." The case began on an August night in a cornfield off the highway, 20 miles west of London. There Gregsten, a married, 36-year-old research physicist, was parked with his girl friend, Valerie Storie, 23, a lab assistant. Suddenly a gun-toting man forced his way into the car and ordered Gregsten off on a wild drive through the countryside. Finally tiring of the joyride, the assailant had Gregsten pull the car off the A6 highway at a roadside parking area known as Deadman's Hill. There the attacker, startled by a sudden movement from Gregsten...
...James Ryan. Checking this lead, Scotland Yard found a traveling salesman in Ireland who reported that he had written some postcards to England for a near illiterate acquaintance named Jimmy Ryan. One card in particular had seemed odd; it was addressed to a Mrs. Mary Hanratty, and it began: "Dear...
Author Tisdall does his own scurrilous best to indicate that the aging Victoria was not always alone in the beds at Windsor and Balmoral over which hung photographs of her dear, dead Albert. He goes so far as to describe a mysterious photostat sent to him years ago, and now unaccountably lost, purporting to be the pieced-together fragments of a love letter in the Queen's handwriting, fished from Brown's scrap basket. The basis of the bond between them, he speculates, may have been that Brown was a spiritualist medium through whom Victoria thought...