Word: sat
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...Abdallah sat until the Sultan, shaded by a parasol and fanned by a long-handled fly sweeper, drew near. Ben Abdallah revved up the motor, threw the old roadster into gear and roared at 40 m.p.h. straight at the mounted Sultan. For a startled instant, the Sultan watched the oncoming car, then began to dismount. A tough professional soldier, Calais-born Robert King, who is physical training instructor of the Sultan's guards, leaped on the running board of the Ford, grabbed ben Abdallah by the neck and wrestled him from the car. Ben Abdallah pulled a butcher knife...
Looking for Water. At Freedom Village, after the doctors looked him over (he was having some trouble with his teeth, had a trace of amoebic dysentery), he sat down before a microphone and grinned at a crowd of newsmen. "You are the first Americans I've seen since July 1950," said General Dean. "I'm sure you look a lot better to me than 1 do to you." Then he told his story: how he and a small group of officers and G.I.s fought their way out of burning Taejon in that first grim month...
Matter-of-factly, he recalled the first ugly weeks of capture. Sick from diarrhea, the Reds' prize prisoner was subjected to three relentless interrogations-one for a stretch of 68 hours, one for 44 hours, and one for 32 hours. His bottom got so sore that he sat for hours on his hands, until those, too, became swollen and sore...
...paneled Paris office overlooking the Etoile last week sat a grey-haired, lean and elegant Frenchman, chain-smoking Havana cigars. In his buttonhole, Pierre Wertheimer, 65, wore the emblem of the Legion of Honor; on his glass-topped desk stood row after row of perfume bottles and boxes of cosmetics. They, too, were emblems of achievement. For Pierre Wertheimer, a man so shy that few have ever heard of him (he permits no photographs), is the world's perfume king. He owns the Bourjois and Chanel companies, bosses 3,000 employees in plants from Rochester, N.Y. to London, sells...
Poet Alfred de Musset was next on the list. She sat on a cushion at his feet, puffing a long pipe of Bosnian cherrywood, while he murmured that "his genius was a poor, frail thing." It was. George left Alfred half dead in a Venetian hotel and took up with his Italian doctor. "Is it in you, my Pietro," Sand wrote to her medico, "in you at long last that I shall see my dream fulfilled?" It was not in Pietro...