Word: shoulders
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...exhuming stone for the Pyramids; like droplets that will steal into compressed Chinese waterflowers to make them bloom in bowls on Occidental library tables-so stole droplets of the yellow Yangtze flood in between the starch layers of the Rhineland's myriad passive beans, making them swell and shoulder one another, making their mass bulge and press against the triple-riveted bulkheads, until the bulkheads slowly burst and the Rhineland, despite salvaging efforts, was a total wreck. Scientific name for the creeping of the droplets: capillary action...
...made of his chest. The left side had been distressing him. When he breathed, it scarcely budged. The x-ray showed that fluid had accumulated in his left pleural cavity (the space in which the lung moves), had squeezed his left lung up until it barely moved under his shoulder blade, had forced his heart far out of normal over to the right side of his body. Surgeons at Columbus' New McKinley Hospital tapped his chest with a hollow, apirating needle, drew off some pus, a minor operation which gave Switchman Cramer some relief. Fluid again accumulated. So surgeons...
From a bathing house in Roubaix, France, emerged one Mme. Cuvelier Desprez, 87, moving with the cramped, deliberate shuffle of the very old. About her wasted body, peaked shoulder, shriveled rib, a one-piece bathing suit hung in folds from whose lower regions projected the wishbone straddle of her thighs. Her face was lean, brown, seamed with a thousand lines. The bathing attendant tapped her on the shoulder. "Be careful, my old one! Not so near the edge. One slip and- plumps-you would be in, hein?" Mme. Cuvelier turned on him the point of a yellow tooth. "Holy...
...tiring; the little moons were ominous. She went to the side lines and asked for a glass of brandy. Helen Wills lost the match. She would not, matching drink for drink, implore the gods of a strange land. In the clubhouse the King of Sweden tapped her on the shoulder. "You played nobly," he said...
...driver of Robert Tyre Jones swung down, flicked a blade of grass, a chip of rubber, came to rest over his right shoulder. Three hundred yards down the course the ball stopped rolling. Jones took an iron, swung it up-down. One hundred and eighty yards, splitting the pin all the way, the ball flew as if drawn on an invisible wire, slid four yards past the hole. Turnesa, watching, brushed his hand across his forehead. So it was all no use, his own fight over the harsh Scioto course, with its clods like stones, no use, the 294 that...