Word: honeymooner
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Dorothy Knight, in process of divorcing her husband, Manhattan Lawyer Richard Allen Knight (who last year stood on his head in the Metropolitan Opera House), dropped her suit, went with him on a second honeymoon to Hot Springs, Ark. Said she: "It was the long-distance calls that really got me, wore me down and out. I had to sleep with the telephone under the bed the whole time I was in Reno. The children couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep...
Dorothy Knight, in process of divorcing her husband, Manhattan Lawyer Richard Allen Knight (who last year stood on his head in the Metropolitan Opera House), dropped her suit, went with him on a second honeymoon to Hot Springs, Ark. Said she: "It was the long-distance calls that really got me, wore me down and out. I had to sleep with the telephone under the bed the whole time I was in Reno. The children couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep. The dogs couldn't sleep and the cat didn't know what to make...
Rejecting all bids, Promoter Washburn took a new tack. He offered U. S. newlyweds free two-week honeymoons in the Gulf Coast paradise. In no time they had hit him with applications for some 2,000 suites. Laying out $15,000 to clean up the island, build shacks and a recreation hall, Mr. Washburn, a quiet, thin man with brown eyes, greying hair and the demeanor of a deacon, set out in search of a king & queen for Hog Island, rechristened Honeymoon Isle...
...Baltimore. He ordered every available trooper into Worcester County, sent Lieut. Ruxton Ridgely and Sergeant William H. Weber with orders to save the Negro women "at all costs." A member of Baltimore's exclusive Bachelors' Cotillion, twice married, good-looking Socialite Lieut. Ridgely spent his first honeymoon pursuing bootleggers, was famed for his exploits. No mob-fearer was Sergeant Weber, who was badly battered trying to stop the 1933 lynching. They flew to Salisbury, sped into Worcester County...
...with her first three glasses of champagne fizzing warmly underneath her low-cut evening gown, crying "Comrades!" to the "dear French people" in a swanky Paris night club: and a starry-eyed Bolshevik girl back in Moscow burying her face in a satin slip, and begging it for her honeymoon. Again, clever direction has saved the three Russian wheelhorses, Buljanoff, Iranoff, and Kopalski, from becoming a cheap imitation of the Three Stooges, and has made them uproarious symbols of a comfort-loving Russian bourgeoisie squirming under cold Soviet efficiency, throwing their hotel room carpet out of the window and complaining...