Word: sleek
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Soon he sees her coming down the platform. It is easy to pick her out. No mistaking her for someone's secretary. She looks fresh and eager, with her saucy had and sleek fur coat. He watches her face as it searches the crowd anxiously. The expression is too good to miss. After all, this is a foreign city to her. Then she spies him, and Vag smiles a really happy smile. It has been a long, exam-filled week, but now at long last she stands there in front of him. Smoke swirls around them...
...boats and men are made so sensitive they are almost machinelike, the champions of the Gloucester and Lunenberg fleets make a healthy contrast. There is no hierarchy of yacht racing associations, of new tank-tested boats every year. The false atmosphere of tailored yachting uniforms, professionals who groom the sleek boats for "amateurs" to take the tiller in the races and a society that goes with them are all missing. Perhaps the cup yachts and their smaller sisters are not, as many a fishing skipper is apt to term them, just "damn toy boats"; but the sight of two vessels...
...antiquated and barnlike, its benches are uncomfortable. All the buildings are old and ramshackle, except the Mond Laboratory for low-temperature research, for which Sir Robert Ludwig Mond, gas & oil tycoon and amateur scientist, provided $75,000 in 1932. The Mond Laboratory, which has vibration-damping walls and sleek steel and scarlet furniture in the director's offices, has attained the creditable mark of .02° C. above Absolute Zero...
...George Weinberg, a sleek Schultz henchman whose brother and onetime associate Bo is reputed to lie on the bottom of the East River enclosed in a block of cement, said he was the business manager of the racket. "The Dutchman [Schultz]," said Mr. Weinberg, told him to pay Hines $500 a week. Sometimes, added Mr. Weinberg, Hines...
Through the streets of Manhattan's dusky Harlem last week trundled a procession of black noise and magnificence, led by a sleek touring car on whose back perched a fattish, blinking, middle-aged Negro in a brown tweed suit whose peculiarity is that he recognizes himself as God. Behind Major J. ("Father") Divine rode a squadron of his women cultists straddling big brewery horses. Humbler worshipers followed in cars, trucks and afoot, in a line that stretched back through the hot streets almost a mile. "PEACE IS WONDERFUL!" shouted bright placards. "PEACE! PEACE!" Occasion for this celebration...