Word: foyer
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...broadcaster (Best & Co.), and magazine contributor (Liberty and Cosmopolitan), the White House and its extroverted occupants have provided a lively background for her yarn. Easy to identify are Mrs. Ball's children Anna Eleanor ("Sistie") and Curtis ("Buzzie") who show a mute and dazzled Scamper the White House foyer, the State dining room, the grand stairway, the Presidential study. No pedagog, Mrs. Dall imparts to her readers only as much of Washington's historical background as Dave and Babs can remember. A direct literary descendant of Beatrix Potter's "Peter Rabbit," Scamper is screwed more tightly...
...organized by her, scavenging was a jittery version of the old-fashioned treasure hunt. The contestants paired off in the East Foyer, received sealed envelopes listing bizarre objects which they were expected to fetch in an hour and one-half. At a gun's bark they bolted for the elevators and rushed out into the night to find the following items...
...carried the same news: the good friend and trusted aide of each & every one of them, Irwin Hood ("Ike") Hoover, longtime chief usher at the White House, was dead in Washington at the age of 62. He had left his cubby-hole office just off the White House foyer one afternoon, gone home, been suddenly stricken with a heart attack. Declared President Roosevelt who had known him since the days of T. R.: "It was Ike Hoover who met me at the door when I came into the White House as my home. . . . His passing is a tremendous personal loss...
...began with the sixty-five cents. The box office, it seems, held no allurements. And then there was the foyer, and with it, all relative to the sixty-five cents, was that appealing influence of Oxford on a South End accent gently intoning that discouraged something about a "Bettah seelekshun." Those fifteen pairs of trodden toes reacted in the usual incoherent manner. The patron saint of sleeping dogs keeps watch over the soles of metropolitan theatre-goers...
...hats and no-hats bobbed enthusiastically through the hideous foyer of Manhattan's Civic Repertory Theatre in grimy 14th Street one evening last week. Men in leather coats from Greenwich Village and tailcoats from Murray Hill, women in city silks and country tweeds were there to celebrate the return of Actress-Producer Eva Le Gallienne from her sabbatical year and the reopening of her famed dramatic workshop, closed all last year. Anything the Repertory company might have put on for its début would have excited cheers from its devoted following. The audience was still howling gratefully long...