Word: graved
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...found themselves even provided with a special bar outside their meeting hall where viands and vintages of every sort were dispensed at prices far from high. M. Poincaré had not been extravagant in his preparations. He was about to ask the National Assembly to amend the Constitution -a grave step for Frenchmen, whose Constitution had sustained but two amendments since it was promulgated at Versailles in 1875. M. Poincaré would shortly demand that the internal debt of France be irrevocably guaranteed by making constitutional the recently passed legislation (TIME, Aug. 9 et seq.) creating an autonomous sinking fund...
...that he must go. Knowledge is as good as her word. She takes Everyman to Confession, and when he has scourged himself, brings him to Good Deeds who has won strength now to go along with him. He receives the sacrament, bequeathes his property, prepares to climb into his grave. Alas! Whereto may I truste? Beaute gothe fast awaye fro me. . . . Why, than ye wyll forsake me all! Swete Strengthe, tary a lytel space. . . . Why, Dyscrecyon, wyll ye forsake me? . . . O, all thynge fayleth, save God alone. Voices call to Everyman; out of the darkening air fall their farewells-from...
...first time in history the Legion of Honor has been awarded to a U. S. member of the theatrical profession. Last week, in a grave oak room whose windows stared out at the Manhattan sky above the traffic of Broadway, Maxine Mongendre, Consul General of France, pinned a bit of ribbon on the breast of Marcus Loew, showman. Mr. Loew, of "Loew, Inc.," became a showman twenty years ago in much the same fashion that he has now become a legionaire-by accident. Even during the solemn ceremony that involved the bit of ribbon he could not appear...
...What shocking reversal of policy has the grave New York Times implied...
...tiger about to spring that many of his associates have since confessed to feeling a twinge of animal terror course down their spines. . . . Now the Tiger has retired, dwells quietly at 8 Rue Franklin, Paris, proclaims to his friends (TIME, April 5) that he treads the brink of the grave. He is 85. But even as he speaks of death, the unquenchable fire darts from his eyes. The grey, suede-gloved hands have still the air of sheathing tiger claws. . . . Last week M. Georges Eugene Adrien Clemenceau, responding no doubt to an appeal from his old friend and political ally...