Word: glooming
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There was one good piece of acting in the evening: that of Miss Lyon as Mrs. Sheridan. She rose from the depths of gloom to the heights of joy with a spontaneity that was remarkable; the scene with her good-for-nothing husband was terrible in its pathos; and yet never once did she over do her part, never once did she strike a false note. The rest of the cast was realistic but unimportant...
...heavy pall hangs over Washington. The newly arrived stranger in the city reads gloom written all over the faces of the honest burghers. Perplexed to explain the general mourning, he asks a passer-by what great person is dead. Shaking his head, the honest, citizen sighs: "Nobody dead, worse luck. There ain't gonna be any circus at all." After months of feverish anticipation the great show has been canceled...
...nothing short of profanation to think of ousting these memories from the mouldy shroud in which they have now slept for half a century. The dust of years lies thick upon the carved rafters. Since the closing of the hall, perhaps bats already flit about in the colored gloom that sifts through the stained glass windows at midday. Through the deep silence a solitary watchman sees the spider drop from the lofty roof and weave an endless web from darkness into darkness. Memory fills the hall in brooding melancholy, and protests against almost every possible new occupant of her sanctuary...
Raucus shouts and stamping of feet may again echo through the majestic gloom of Memorial Hall, and basketballs and indoor baseballs may hum through the surprised air of the solemn have, accompanied by the shrieking of school-children if the President and Fellows grant a petition presented last week by the City of Cambridge...
...audience waited, marveling, expectant. The stage grew dark. An attendant appeared, tiptoed to the candelabras, lit each candle in turn with a glimmering taper. Scarce breathed the audience now, so grave, so holy, was the sight. A young woman in a rose-colored frock suddenly detached herself from the gloom, stood bowing in the soft-lustre before her instrument. She was Marie Leschetizky, final wife of the late Theodor Leschetizky, famed Viennese music teacher,* about to make her Manhattan debut. After due trouble with her chair, she addressed herself to a highly uneventful performance of a Bach Sicilienne. Bach, Liszt...