Word: raptness
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...Mozart specialist. Her voice is a thing of beauty to start with, and perfectly suited to the old Gaelic tongue and the several modern Irish dialects she employed (no actress in Ireland can even begin without competence in at least eight dialects). Her communicative magnetism kept her listeners rapt until almost seven o'clock; and she doubtless would have loved to keep reading if the ghost of Hamlet's father had not been due on stage a half hour later...
...Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion, abed with a virus infection and 102° temperature the day his troops struck into the Sinai peninsula, was a deeply happy man, hailed by his people. Though pale and sweat-beaded with fever, he appeared in the jammed, jubilant Knesset, and with rapt crowds listening at loudspeakers all over Jerusalem, triumphantly reviewed "the glorious military operation that lasted seven days...
...audience sat rapt and bewitched. Not a feathered toque or a velvet pillbox moved in Boston's Symphony Hall. There was something vastly appealing about the frail, hunched woman as she bent over the keyboard; her playing of Beethoven's Concerto No. 3 was filled with a rare kind of fire, poetry and sadness. Bucharest-born Pianist Clara Haskil, 61, was making her first U.S. appearance in 30 years, with Charles Munch and the Boston Symphony Orchestra. When she finished, the hall reverberated to stamping feet and shouts of "Bravo!"' She was called back an un precedented...
...Atlantic City, before 22,000 rapt spectators, an annual rite was performed. After a select group of American beauties had paraded their assets for all to assay, South Carolina's blonde, blue-eyed Marian Ann McKnight, 19 (assets: 35-23-35; dividend: a singing imitation of Marilyn Monroe), was handed a queenly scepter and crowned Miss America of 1957. After sobbing a moment, but not at the thought that her title will net her close to $75,000, the queen threw her head back and said: "Who would have thought this could happen...
From this unlikely material Novelist Hugh Hickling has distilled a parable of man at war and an odd, rapt bit of poetry of the sea. There are no storms, either of men or of elements, as the clumsy LCT flotilla makes its way from the Firth of Clyde to its appointment with history on the beaches of Normandy. Personalities clash, but, as they must under the imperatives of war, such clashes collapse inconclusively...