Word: graved
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...carriers how they might not consolidate. Its own plan serves to show roads how they now may. The Commission has no power to compel roads to merge in accordance with its plan, which it frankly states is subject to "modification." Since rail consolidations became a public policy in 1920, grave doubts have arisen as to their present necessity. Carriers have improved financially by leaps and bounds, with few weak roads needing the aid of strong ones. The agitation in Congress for additional consolidation legislation is designed to give the roads a sort of power of condemnation whereby they can acquire...
...Chaney, Pianists Wanda Landowska and George Gershwin; that O'Rossen of Paris makes his clothes, Chanel his perfume; that he is inevitably late save for engagements of one sort. When he is scheduled to appear in concert he is always meticulously prompt for he feels it a grave responsibility to be José Iturbi, Spain's greatest pianist...
Author Wiegler presents a portfolio of 21 thumbnail biographies: impressionistic studies of men and women of genius. Some are boudoir, some bedside scenes. Heloise and Abelard, separated for life, long for each other and finally share a grave; Byron, fair, fattish and 40, dies of fever at Missolonghi; Goethe walks through the night to one of his many assignations; Oscar Wilde, under his enforced pseudonym of Sebastian Melmoth, dies a pariah at the Hotel d'Alsace in Paris; George Sand and Alfred de Musset kiss and wrangle; Tolstoy, in his last illness, flees his troublesome wife and dies...
...done. But Mr. Lloyd George is peculiar. Like the Heathen Chinee, he and his Liberals sat impassive, refused to go into either division lobby, abstained from voting. Scowling, the Conservatives followed the Clydesiders; scowling blacker the regular Laborites filed into the Government's lobby. The result looked grave. Scot MacDonald, who weathered the messenger boy crisis with a majority of 70, squeaked through last week with an ominous...
...Living Corpse. In Moscow, toward the end of the 19th Century, it was a gypsy singer, her grave gypsy songs, and the sultry, southern wines which drew Fedya Protasov away from his home and a sweet wife who tried helplessly to forget him. But Fedya, despite his weak lips and wanton tastes, was not the total wreckage that he seemed. For one thing, he never took advantage of the passion innocently offered him by his beloved Masha, the gypsy. For another, he never told lies, so that rather than commit the wholesale falsification necessary to give his wife a divorce...