Word: mien
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Speaking with the fatherly mien of my newly-acquired "experience," but still, after only five weeks here, rather open-mouthed and dewy-eyed, I hereby recommend that everyone become a war correspondent. True, there are occasional discomfitures, sometimes made of lead and steel, but by and large, and I'm serious, it's a remarkable opportunity for good descriptive writing. And as in newspaper work anywhere, you get a helluva lot better picture of what's going on out here than anyone can get from reading the censored reports. Finally, you know, every war correspondent always writes a book when...
...easy half-wave, half-salute through a jam of curious stenos and secretaries, past milling clusters of newsmen and photographers, into Room 318 of the Senate Office Building. Bedlam followed him in. Cameramen clambered on to chairs to capture the firm jaw, the still-dark hair and serious mien, for the afternoon editions. The 25 Senators of the Armed Services and Foreign Relations Committees dribbled in, shook hands with Douglas MacArthur one by one, and found their places at a long table. Other Senators, admitted by a last-minute vote which opened the hearings to all members of the upper...
...hour nap in a crate in Madison Square Garden's basement, 3½-year-old Trick perked up for the final of the Westminster Kennel Club. Most of his five rivals, survivors of more than 2,500 carefully sifted pooches, were considerably more formidable in size and mien. Finalist Judge George H. Hartman moved from the sleek pointer (best of the sporting dogs) to the shaggy Afghan (best of the hounds), examining each dog with quick hand and practiced eye. When he got to the handsome imported German shepherd (working-dog winner), the handler slipped off the lead...
Most of the gallerygoers, whether pro-or anti-Klee, wore a solemn mien, as required by traditional museum etiquette. But a visiting watercolorist walked in and asked: "Why isn't anybody laughing...
Spain's ex-Foreign Minister and onetime heir-apparent to his brother-in-law, Francisco Franco, rose with leisurely languor from a red velvet couch, adjusted his gray silk tie, sauntered into his studio to receive the unexpected callers. Solemn of mien, in dark blue suits and black ties, the two señors coldly declined to sit. One thrust forward a blue-bound book with the bright yellow title-Press Mission in Spain. "Have you seen this book?" he asked with menace in his tone...