Word: fonds
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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Baruch devoted his last years to his memoirs, to the philanthropies into which his father had steered him-colleges, medical schools and rehabilitation projects-and to gathering a generous sheaf of awards and honors. "To me," he was fond of saying, "old age is 15 years older than I am." In the end, the irrepressible Bernard Baruch finally caught up with...
...Continent,* picked a fiance with no private fortune. Son of an impoverished Prussian Junker, Von Amsberg worked his way through the University of Hamburg and up through the German Foreign Service to an administrative post in Bonn. Known to fellow diplomats as a Streber (go-getter), he is fond of fast cars-though an aging Porsche is all he can afford on a $400-a-month government salary. Thus, in many ways he resembles the penniless German princeling and junior executive who married Juliana in 1937 and became Prince Bernhard of The Netherlands. Besides, as Bernhard himself said last week...
...would think of those bones at bed time. We all became kind of fond of him," said Lynda Bird Johnson, 21, after spending ten days pecking away with trowel, whisk broom and dental pick to unearth a fragile, 700-year-old skeleton in a kiva (chamber) of an ancient Pueblo Indian settlement in wildest Arizona. Lynda roughed it with a team from the University of Arizona excavating near a place called Grasshopper. And while she was rolling that wheelbarrow around, guess what Sister Luci Baines was doing for wheels back in Washington: varooming through town...
...bowlegged, barelegged (except for anklet socks) toreador fleeing a rampaging bull in a Madrid ring. Or replaying his "Now a message from Alka-Seltzer," which was unexpectedly punctuated by a belch from Jonathan Winters. Or sending Richard Nixon to the piano and leading Bea Lillie off with a fond pat on her backside...
Director Losey tries to cover cliches with camera trickery. He works from arresting angles, all but caressing the decor of a world made to order for the filthy rich. Fond of polished surfaces, he dotes on reflections in mirrors, sunglasses, brandy snifters. But the validity of Eva lies in Moreau's accomplished bitchery. As a sleek alley cat commuting at her whim between Venice and Rome, she slinks from warm beds to warm baths, purring over her furs and silks and blues records with such hypnotic self-absorption that even a silly role begins to seem not just interesting...