Word: lait
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...Public Eye has the edge in freshness and invention. Mr. Cristoforou (Barry Foster) materializes in an austerely elegant London office lined with muted leather bindings. Against this background, Cristoforou is a sartorial explosion of black and brown stripes, flaming yellow tie, a café-au-lait shirt, off-beige shoes, and foreign correspondent's raincoat. He is also a walking menu of odd goodies. Out of his pockets and briefcase, he dredges and devours bananas, Brazil nuts, cartons of yoghurt and handfuls of macaroons, while flourishing an empty sugarcellar. A Greek by descent, and a private detective by happenstance...
Died. Lee Mortimer, 56, New York Mirror columnist who for years as second-slinger to Walter Winchell covered Manhattan like it was something under a rock, then broke into the nonbook world as co author (with the late Jack Lait) of such penny dreadfuls as New York Confidential, Washington Confidential, Chicago Confidential, and U.S.A. Confidential, all of which earned him more libel suits than fame; of a heart attack; in Manhattan...
...shimmering blue silk Lanvin gown, milk-white turban and evening slippers gracefully ascended a dais piled high with priceless Oriental carpets, and turned to face her audience. Younger men in the audience eyed appreciatively the girl's dark eyes, her rich red-brown hair and café au lait complexion. But many orthodox Moslem traditionalists just stared wide-eyed, stunned and aghast at the appearance in public of Her Royal Highness Princess Lalla Aisha, eldest daughter of His Majesty the Sultan-17 years old, unveiled and unashamed...
...first rites was to change her name. Cohn liked the name Kit Marlowe. She insisted on keeping Novak. But the name Marilyn had to go because it suggested another blonde. For two days the new actress was named Kit Novak until she tearfully went to Publicity Director George Lait to plead for a change to Kim.* Remembers Lait: "Honey, 1 said, I had one helluva time to even get Cohn to keep Novak. You go to see him." Kim went, and charmed the great man into acquiescence...
...while you inhale the atmosphere of delicious imported wickedness. In an atmosphere of such exuberant freedom the most prosaic Radcliffe student can entertain titillating existentialist opinions, even though the only feeling of anxiety she may ever have is to wonder if she can pay for all the cafe au lait she has drunk, and her only feeling of dread, that provoked by the approaches of the young man sitting across from her. The Harvard community now supports two of these reasonable facsimilies. Like (and, of course, pointedly unlike) the corner soda fountain, the coffee houses, with their exotically late hours...