Word: smells
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...might have seemed, for the accident had occurred within a stone's throw of the editorial rooms of the News; a camera man had merely to dash down stairs and run a block to take the offensive photograph. In this example of horrifying journalism there was the smell of an excuse, for the victim had not been killed-merely knocked down, internally injured, and fractured in the skull. There was life in the corpselike shape-all that was earthly of one John Flake...
...ratting of plates and the smell of cooking have left Memorial Hall, and the busy click of Business School typewriters now takes their place. The historic customs of eating at a commons was abandoned last year when repeated efforts to make the University dining hall successful, had failed...
...thurifers in scarlet cassocks led the priests out of the sacristy of Christ Church and around to the big main door. A shrewd wind was blowing, touched with smoke from many autumn bonfires, and the fragrance of the incense from the swinging censers mingled in the air with the smell of burning leaves, and blew back over the moving column of priests, over the officers of the council, over the richly vested phalanx of Bishops who brought up the rear. The thurifers entered the Church. There was a rustle as the multitude stood up. Then candles were lit, hymn books...
...brides. A rebel arises in Manland, demanding shares for him and his wild fellows in the rite. The Light-Bearers themselves are infected with revolt and there is a year when the dedicated maidens have nothing to report of their sleep in the temple save pleasant dreams. The maidens smell fraud and burn the temple, whose flames signal a lusty and welcomed invasion from Manland. In the orgy of innocent rapine and surrender that follows, Phaon is pursued, somewhat to his distaste, by bands of ardent maenads, toward whom he being older has felt somewhat as a father...
...Barrymore's memoirs were neither rowdy nor pornographic, but the measured attempt of an intelligent man to comment cool-mindedly upon his own career. None of the fustian sentiment, like the smell of an old stage wardrobe-none of the gasconnading, the pomposities, the how-well-I-remember-the-night that clutter most actors' reminiscences-nor yet the blatancy that distinguishes those of certain editors-were discoverable in the suave, faintly amused memories of John Barrymore...