Word: porticoes
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...Bank of Settlements, set up under the Young Plan, was advanced and discussed. Emerging from the White House, the Messrs. Young and Morgan stepped into the first motor that drew up. Halfway down the drive they discovered it was the all-aluminum limousine of Secretary Mellon. Back under the portico stood Mr. Mellon, plunged in perplexity. The Messrs. Morgan & Young drove around to the portico again, got out. Mr. Morgan tapped Mr. Mellon amiably on the shoulder, assured him they had had no intention of making off with his unique machine. The next day Secretary of State Stimson reaffirmed...
There were 47 participants, seven finalists after preliminary competitions. The final project called for a giant art centre with galleries, auditorium, offices, library, studios. Architect Johnson rendered a rectangular two-story building with a Doric portico, a serene, traditional design with much unadorned wall space. He wins a prize valued at $8,000-including residence and studio for three years at the American Academy in Rome, transportation funds, a yearly stipend...
...afternoon last autumn, His Holiness was preparing to enjoy a carriage ride around the spacious Vatican gardens. An open barouche and a pair of glossy spanking Irish steeds waited at the portico of St. Damasus Courtyard. Suddenly the mettlesome beasts became frightened. They shied, snorted, whinnied, plunged. Finally they "ran away" in a mad dash around the high-walled garden...
Horrified servants watched as the Papal barouche, careening, bouncing, made the circuit once and then crashed splintering into a heavy stone portico supporting the stairs down which His Holiness was expected momentarily to descend. Blood spattered and gushed to form a thick, sluggish pool upon the flagstones. One of the Irish horses had been gashed and killed in the clattering impact. The barouche was thoroughly wrecked...
...blown rain dampened his hair, clotted his eyebrows. He shook his head impatiently to get the wet off his face. The fringes of the crowd melted away. Indians in full war paint (friends and race relatives of the Vice President) retreated to shelter under the Capitol's main portico. The President began to hurry his words, faster, louder, doggedly, as the tattoo of water from above grew louder and louder. It was, Boris must have thought, dismal weather...