Word: lank
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...Lank Model Suzy Parker, 27, a redhead whose peculiar talent is to make bones look even more appealing than flesh, finally conceded that, after almost five years with Paris Reporter Pierre de la Salle (one child), it was all over. Some months ago, Suzy had given an interesting description of her marriage: "An American girl is against everything a Frenchman stands for. I've been told I can't cook, I can't sew, and I'm not fit to be a wife. If I speak French to him, he speaks English. If I speak English...
...Eight hours of Orff is simply too much!" The speaker, a tall, lank-haired man in tweed jacket and maroon wool shirt, was none other than rehearsal-weary Carl Orff, Germany's most famed modern composer. Hours, or even minutes, of Orff have indeed often proved too much for some tradition-minded audiences in Europe and the U.S. But last week crowds were thronging to the Stuttgart Opera House for a solid week of Composer Orff's works, including his latest: Oedipus der Tyrann, a highly individual dissertation on the Sophocles tragedy...
...year ago short, lank-haired Manabu Mabe was a familiar but furtive peddler on the streets of Brazil's metropolitan (pop. 3,650,000) Sao Paulo. His wares: his own hand-painted ties, priced from 85^ to $1.15. "It was embarrassing and illegal," Mabe confesses. "I had no peddler's license, but they sold fast." Only at night did Manabu Mabe indulge his private obsession, squandering his money on oil and canvases, sitting up, often until dawn, to paint large, calligraphic abstractions. Suddenly this year the whirlwind of artistic success sucked 35-year-old Manabu Mabe into...
Occasionally, Crabbe frequents the literary salon of Sidney Thorah, editor of The Blue Volume, "a lank round-shouldered bony unhealthy personage" (in real life Henry Harland, literary editor of John Lane's Yellow Book, made famous by Beardsley and Beerbohm). In his cast-off dinner jacket, Crabbe does not flourish amid the strangely innocent Ninetyish wickedness of this salon...
Under the spotlight, her thin, sharp face had the moody glower of an unsuccessful manicurist. Her lank, hemp-colored hair splashed in uncombed confusion above her black velvet sheath. But weird as she looked, slack-mouthed, hazel-eyed Singer Tammy Grimes sounded wonderful-no mean accomplishment in the cramped quarters of Julius Monk's Downstairs at the Upstairs, a crowded Manhattan nightclub where the man who moves may catch his neighbor's elbow in his ear or his companion's highball...