Word: greets
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...selfconscious: Indians derive both humor and a satisfying sense of tragedy from their hopelessly internecine differences. As Sadhu Singh Dhami, a distinguished Sikh scholar, said last week: "The cow is sacred to the Hindus and pork repulsive to Moslems. . . . The Hindus are rather noisy in their ritual and greet an interesting variety of mute gods with a blare of conch shells and din of gongs, while the Moslems' worship of Allah is austere and silent and includes a bit of healthy physical exercise. The Moslem is circumcised, while the Hindu is not; the Moslem clips his mustache...
...worst blizzard since Jan. 28, 1922, when the roof of the Knickerbocker Theater fell in. It was not a great day for pomp and circumstance. No crowds, no band, only Acting Secretary of State Sumner Welles and heads of the Army, Navy and Marines, were at Union Station to greet the visitor from Mexico...
March is early autumn in Australia, and the sun was warming a crisp morning when General MacArthur's train approached Melbourne. Australians had just got the news from their late morning papers, and 4,000 had gathered to greet him outside the station's high, iron fence. They saw assorted generals in standard khaki and medals, an admiral or two in white and gold, a U.S. Army battalion drawn up as guard of honor. They saw seven white-legginged, strangely brown soldiers in a special detail: Filipinos from Field Marshal MacArthur's Commonwealth Army, wounded...
Eyes on the Argentine. From a speaker's podium banked with orchids, Brazil's suave; nimble-witted Foreign Minister Oswaldo Aranha stepped on to the floor to greet various delegates at the opening session. But when Argentina's Foreign Minister Enrique Ruiz Guiñazú came in, walking gingerly, Oswaldo Aranha hurried forward to shake hands, pat his shoulder, and chat warmly. For Argentina's Ruiz Guiñazú was the man who might wreck the Conference. He was the man to watch...
...tiny flotilla moved in battle line toward the still-sleeping village of St. Pierre, a lone bristle-bearded Breton sailor ran down to the quai to greet it, his wooden sabots clattering and slipping on the icy streets. In the still morning air the whole harbor could hear him bilingually swearing: "Pétain, le sacre bleu cochon, le old goat!" . . . With trembling hands he lashed the first corvette line to a bollard. "Vive De Gaulle," he shouted. "At last I can say it. Vive De Gaulle...