Word: garretful
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Further down the Winooski valley, at Waterbury, Vt., martial law was declared. Many a flood freak had occurred. The 300 inmates of an insane asylum escaped. ... A large house with all lights lit floated by at the first flood midnight.*... A crippled farmer nearly starved in his garret. . . . Hearing that Bolton, downstream village, needed food, a Waterbury undertaker furnished coffins to float a raft, which reached Bolton. . . . A rendering (glue, etc.) factory in the Winooski Valley was offered 3,000 carcasses of drowned dairy cows. . . . Excavators were imperiled by a store of dynamite that floated out of a construction camp...
First, there were 30 pages of the manuscript of the Life. These had not been closed in the ebony trunk, but had, since the death of Boswell, reposed in a Scottish garret where the air was as damp as oatmeal. When Lord Talbot stooped to gather this sheaf of merry memories, the bundle had crumbled in his hand into a little flutter of yellowish flakes. Only 30 pages could be gathered again. These, a gay jumble of antique anecdotes, had been joined and backed with gauze so that they might last perhaps forever. The manuscript of An Account of Corsica...
...believes steadfastly in her bon Dieu, Charles Farrell as blustering, "very remarkable fellow" Chico, are consistently true and natural. Imaginative direction is capped by superb photography that reaches its technical climax when Diane and Chico are shown slowly mounting the seven flights of dreary stairs to their starlit garret...
...that Dean Briggs is gone, "Copey" is the last of a vanished style in Harvard professors, in professors anywhere, for that matter. He himself is Dickensian, with his piercing glance to identify a caller or passery, his two bachelor rooms in the garret of old Hollis, his quick replies which from a less amiable nature might be crabhed but from him seem way and sprightly, and his remark in the introduction to his anthology: "As for Christmas Eve, it won't seem like itself if Mrs. Lowell stops allowing me to bring my book...." Time...
...also quite necessary. Now that Dean Briggs is gone, "Copey" is the last of a vanished style in Harvard professors, in professors anywhere, for that matter. He himself is Dickensian, with his piercing glance to identify a caller or passerby, his two bachelor rooms in the garret of old Hollis, his quick replies which from a less amiable nature might be crabbed but from him seem wry and sprightly, and his remark in the introduction to his anthology: "As for Christmas Eve, it won't seem like itself if Mrs. Lowell stops allowing me to bring my book...