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Word: gusts (lookup in dictionary) (lookup stats)
Dates: during 1950-1959
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Usage:

...Lois Holmes. Art Smith, as Morton Kiil, presents a striking portrait of her shrewd and disreputable father. Gene Frankel's direction is adept and certain touches are superb. Yet with the children, who add more distraction than depth, his direction is spotty and they generally dash onstage with a gust, then settle into the shadows to await their lines...

Author: By Carl PHILLIPS Jr., | Title: Enemy of the People | 10/28/1959 | See Source »

Every now and then a strong gust of wind whipped through the big stadium at Pusan, but at first the 70,000 children and parents in the audience paid no attention. Onstage, as the restless bunting snapped and waved, a troop of comedians and singers was putting on a special children's show, and the audience giggled and roared. But some among the parents began to notice black clouds massing in the sky, and remembered that a typhoon had been reported offshore that very morning. The performers sensed the danger, too, for they began to race through their acts...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: SOUTH KOREA: Children's Show | 7/27/1959 | See Source »

...Slicks & Gusts. But the 500 is no joy ride. One slip, one tiny miscalculation, a sudden gust of wind, an oil slick on the track-any of these, at high speed, can bring death; the track's pavement and rails are covered with skid marks and paint scratches left by skidding, hurtling cars. In 50 years of racing at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, 50 people have died...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Sport: The 500 | 6/1/1959 | See Source »

Just then a gust of wind lifted the straw hat from Jessie's head and blew it through the air until it landed among a congregation of floating ducks. "Boy oh boy!" said Georgie. "Will it sink...

Author: By Alice P. Albright, | Title: The Swan's Song | 4/25/1959 | See Source »

...though, Simon's poeticizing betrays him. His final gust tastes too much of sorrow spooned with a sophomore's relish: "Soon [the wind] would blow up great storms across the plain, tear the last red leaves from the vines, strip the trees bent beneath it, its strength unimpeded, purposeless, doomed to exhaust itself endlessly, without hope of an end, wailing its long nightly complaint as if it were sorry for itself, envying the sleeping men, transitory and perishable creatures, envying them their possibility of forgetfulness, of peace: the privilege of dying...

Author: /time Magazine | Title: Books: Holy Fool | 4/13/1959 | See Source »

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