Word: mistressing
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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Czerniawsky had a pale, dark-haired mistress named Renee Borni. Perhaps Mathilde was jealous. In any case, when the Gestapo pounced on the three of them in a frowsy little Montmartre hotel, Mathilde was more like a purring cat than a fighting tigress. Soon she was having an affair with a Gestapo corporal named Hugo Bleicher...
Thousands of British children crowded around TV sets at week's end to hear Muffin the Mule make his New Year resolution. As curly-haired Mistress-of-Ceremonies Annette Mills appeared at her piano and ran through the opening bars of We Want Muffin, watching children squirmed with anticipation. Then Muffin, a black & white puppet with a straggly mane and a shabby velvet saddle, came clattering across the piano. As always, he blundered about, got his foot tangled in Annette's teacup, finally collapsed in a dither of excitement. As always, the TV audience shrieked with pleasure. Then...
...subject in question was one of the 19th Century's standard true-life romantic mysteries-the deaths of Crown Prince Rudolph of Austria and his mistress, Mary Vetsera, in the royal hunting lodge at Mayerling, in 1889. But Author Lonyay (whose princely uncle later married Rudolph's widow) has had access to family accounts never published before; and by the time he has cut his brash trooper's path through the great romance, not all the Charles Boyers, Danielle Darrieuxs and Hollywood directors could put it together again...
...stood outside his window to see him, and died of exposure. Fascinated by the notion that he might have died in her arms, Rudolph-begged an army officer to perform a double suicide with him. When the officer refused, he made the same plea to his favorite mistress, but she, too, declined the honor. The reader has Author Lonyay's full assurance that another mistress, Mary Vetsera, was delighted to accept. She was thrilled at the thought of being found dead in bed with the heir to the throne...
When the curtain slipped down with John Loder and Sylvia Sidney in the third-act clinch of "O Mistress Mine," my throat was a little hoarse from laughing, but I had a vague notion that I had been gypped. For the first two acts of the play I thought I was enjoying not only a genuinely laughable piece, but a comedy which was even sounder for recognizing a human problem and treating it with sympathy. But the final resolution is just a magical blend of cajolery and near-fraud that makes Terence Rattigan's "O Mistress Mine" merely another very...