Word: leans
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...tidy office in Appleton, Wis. one autumn day, a lean, brown-haired man sat down at his desk to face an irksome task. Nathan Marsh Pusey was writing his biography for the 25th reunion of his class at Harvard, and it was with much of the agony that H. M. Pulham Esq. went through ("a good deal like something on a tombstone . . . never did like writing . . .") that he dutifully recorded his life. He noted that he had three chil dren, was president of Appleton's Lawrence College (enrollment: 800), that "liberal education is my chief concern...
...children to school. It is 32% Christian. It has more doctors, engineers and teachers per capita than any other state in India. But Travancore also has the highest "educated unemployment" rate in India, and wages are low. Thousands of primary-school teachers get only $6 a month; they lean towards Communism like many other frustrated intellectuals, and indoctrinate their pupils-and through them, the parents...
Ashenfelter, a lean, long-legged (5 ft. 10 in., 145 Ibs.) runner, was almost on the button after the first mile: 4:24.5. But then he began to lag. At a mile and a quarter, as the crowd was already clapping him along with urging applause, Ashenfelter was more than 2 sec. behind. At trackside, Wilt gave him the thumbs-down signal. For the final lap, Ashenfelter never even bothered to look at Wilt. He just put his head down and ran as hard as he could...
...understand the screenwriters' efforts to scrape the tarnish from poor Launcelot's soul. And it is clear that they had to pare down the number of characters wandering through the story to keep within the limits of the CinemaScope screen. But when only a lean-faced Mel Ferrer, a sullen Ava Gardner, and a Frank Merriwellish Robert Taylor remain, disappointment tends to creep in. All that keeps the audience from leaving their seats are the colorful sword-swinging battle scenes between regiments of Round Table rivals and the single-handed heroics of Robert Taylor's Launcelot...
They first saw him silhouetted against a plain grey background on a bare stage, an amazingly lean and youthful figure in tight pants and short jacket, his arms raised in the gypsy dancer's graceful but virile pose. For seven minutes, accompanied only by the rhythmic snapping of his fingernails, he stamped and whirled through the old dances, ending with the crescendo stamping of the flamenco Zapateado. At the finish. Escudero stood motionless, his face whitened and pinched by the effort, as spectators jumped to their feet, applauding wildly. From the gallery, a voice hoarse with emotion shouted: "Vicente...