Word: poisoner
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...Carabiniere. Until she died last winter, Renata Tebaldi's mother accompanied her on all her tours, acted so effectively as a backstage buffer for her daughter that fellow singers affectionately nicknamed her "The Carabiniere." She handled Renata's mail (weeding out the occasional poison-pen letters from over-zealous Callas fans), took care of her clothes and costumes, stationed herself in the wings to minister to Renata with a Thermos jug of warm tea and an emergency flask of brandy when she came offstage. She was quick to resent any affronts to her daughter. Backstage lore...
...conscience is aroused-or perhaps just its curiosity? In either case, the dentist has become a celebrated crusader. A naturalist sees in him the hope of the world. "Man," he says, "is destroying the plants, the animals, all the living roots that heaven planted in the earth. Poison heaven at its roots, and the tree will wither and die. The stars will go out, and heaven will be destroyed." And the hero concludes: "Who knows? If man begins by saving the elephants, he may end by saving himself...
...course that trench fighting is way out of date now. But it was a stinking business: trench-foot, wet, trenchmouth, lice, mud, flu. I remember we used to open our tins of food and they'd be all blown up with gas and poison." He looks out over the dump silently, gazing...
When he landed at New York's Idlewild Airport, a woman from his publisher's office met him with a copy of the unsigned, poison-pen letter-neatly typed, grammatically written and essentially correct. "Harry Golden," it said, "is an ex-convict" who once ran a stock-racketeering Manhattan "bucket shop." Barrel-shaped, cigar-chewing Harry Golden smiled long and thoughtfully. "I've been expecting it for some time," said...
...girls in the 9-14 bracket-not ordinary little girls but a special kind he calls "nymphets." As Humbert explains it in a passage that is typical of his style: "You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs-the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame...