Word: nan
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...Toledo Federal Court last week the pot's objection to being called black by the kettle was denied. Nan Britton, unmarried mother of a 12-year-old girl who she says is the offspring of the late President Warren Gamaliel Harding, was suing Charles Augustus Klunk, hotel proprietor of Marion, Ohio and friend of the 29th President, for selling a book called The Answer to "The President's Daughter" (TIME, Nov. 9). The Answer described Miss Britton as a "degenerate," gave the lie to her account of extra-mari- tal adventures with President Harding set down...
...President's Daughter." In Federal court in Toledo appeared Nan Britton to press her claim to the illicit love of the 29th President of the U. S. With her was her prim and mannerly 12-year-old daughter Elizabeth Ann whom she presented to the world in her book, The President's Daughter (1927) as the bastard of President Harding, conceived in the Senate Office Building. In 1928 one Joseph de Barthe. now dead, wrote and published a thin little book entitled The Answer to "The President's Daughter" in which he defended President Harding...
...Strange Death." Hair-raising was the story told last year by Gaston B. Means, shifty sleuth, in The Strange Death of President Harding (TIME, March 31, 1930). Actual author of this tale, wherein Mrs. Harding was supposed to have poisoned her husband as a result of the Nan Britton affair, was May Dixon Thacker of Norfolk, Va. In an article in Liberty last week Mrs. Thacker repudiated the whole Means story, lamented that she had been badly duped. Three months ago, she said, she was told by "one of the highest officials in Washington" that "it was positively a physical...
...Today-in mental sackcloth and spiritual ashes-I am forced to concede that I was duped. . . . Mrs. Harding knew nothing whatever at any time about Nan Britton or her child. . . . Nan Britton's child is not the child of President Harding. That is my opinion [but] I cannot prove...
When Victor Nave, window washer, crawled out to do a tenth-story window of San Francisco's Rochester building one day last week, he found a falcon's nest on an upper ledge. A thorough cleaning nan, he swept it away. Down plunged sticks, straw and some squeaking nestlings. Down, too, with beak and talons at Victor Nave's face plunged the mother hawk, her mate hovering near with angry cries. Victor Nave, his face streaming blood, clung to the window ledge as the birds dashed at him again & again. At last he loosed his hold, steadied...