Word: greyingly
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...Monterey, Calif. A learned, liberal Virginia-born newspaperman, Chenery led the ailing Collier's to a notable comeback by taking vigorous editorial positions (the magazine was an early champion of Repeal) and recruiting big-name writers-H.G. Wells, Sinclair Lewis, Ring Lardner, Zane Grey-at top dollar; in 1939 he signed F.D.R. to a $75,000-a-year contract for regular contributions...
...whole of Victorian society and its stiff, sexual repression. Daisy, said one Philadelphian publisher in rejecting the long story written in 1878, was "an outrage to American girlhood." Yet, Daisy is not an outrage: She is the one alive person in the story amidst a virtual morgue of grey propriety. She's also coquettish, a flirt of the worst sort, and a damnable tease. But throughout the story one is never sure if it's not just a reaction to what is expected of her, if in America she wouldn't be the life of the party. In Henry James...
Never mind that it often seems a parody of Zane Grey. MacLean's tale gleefully highballs along at a brisk, cinematic clip. Funny touches are provided by the English understatements of MacLean's Pinkerton-man hero. He is the sort of chap who, on examining an arrow embedded in the heroine's shoulder, might mutter, "Mmmm, Apache, I shouldn't wonder...
...through an Indian reservation in central Wisconsin, and empties finally into Croton Lake not a mile from where I live in southern New York State." The novel's epigraph, the reader notes with a sense of having been sandbagged, is a whimsy of the trout-fishing sage, Sparse Grey Hackle, who says that the water of the Hassayampa "renders those who drink it incapable of telling the truth...
...many days with his family hiking over mountain trails in California and Colorado. In addition, he is involved with a plan to build a replica of an old Western town near Durango, Colo. No other bestselling author of westerns seems as well rooted in his material. After all, Zane Grey was a Manhattan dentist when he started to write, and Max Brand, when persuaded by his publishers to visit El Paso and soak up some color, hated it so much that he locked himself in his hotel room and read Sophocles...