Word: palleted
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Boston Adventure attempts not only the Proustian sentence structure and philosophical overtones, but also the use of fantasy as a literary method. Sonia, who spends a disturbing amount of her childhood sleeping on the floor on a pallet, dreams about a wealthy, untouchable Boston spinster named Miss Pride. She met Miss Pride while working as a chambermaid in the Hotel Barstow in Chichester, just outside Boston. "Over and over again," dreams Sonia, "until my eyes closed, I imagined the day on which my parents would die and Miss Pride would come to take me to live at the Hotel...." Eventually...
...Chinese fronts still hold. But the soldiers who hold them have changed. China's heroes are sick. For every man who lies on a reed pallet with battle wounds, ten lie ill of disease. For every man who tosses with dysentery, pneumonia or malaria in a hospital, four others suffer, unattended, in bivouac or trench. At the root of all this aching misery is a malnutrition so vast that no one dares try to cope with it. The fevers of China creep into bodies which exist day after day on 24 oz. of rice. From this rice the heroes...
...woman's heart in childbirth, strained to capacity by labor. The underbeat is the heart of the child she is struggling to bear. Once, in the picture's first episode, the overbeat stops. It is like a scene of human sacrifice. The cramped body lies on its pallet. The doctors make deft, noiseless movements with their instruments, then stop. They are masked in sterile white; eyes staring at the suddenly dead body...
...dawn last week black-cowled Death came to a frail little man lying on a straw pallet in a hushed Kentucky monastery, oldest in the U. S. Soon black-cowled Trappist monks broke their habitual silence to chant the office of the dead for Rt. Rev. Edmond M. Obrecht, 83, Abbot of the Trappist Monastery of Our Lady of Gethsemane, superior administrator of all Trappists in the U. S. and Canada...
...relaxation counts the number of students taking History 1 in the New Lecture Hall. In the evenings he watches the first of the terrific little moths fling themselves with pings of desperation against the tin shade of his study lamp. And in the mornings, supine upon his pallet of horrid languor, he gazes with admiration at the accurate spider stretching her slow web across a corner in anticipation of the few flies which wander solemnly through the unremembered rafters of Memorial Hall...