Word: snarlingly
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Thus the story of Journey's End. The plot itself is not nearly so involved. It is a simple war story of ten men in a dugout during 36 hours that precede a German attack. Their reactions form the basis of the play. They snarl, they laugh, they fight, they cower, they die. Standing out among them is one who hopes for death. He has drowned cowardice with whiskey. He has nothing for which to live. On the eve of the attack there is sent to his company the brother of the girl he loves−the last person...
...returned to the House in altered form. A conference was necessary to iron out differences. What should the House instruct its three conferees to do? First, a Democratic Dry group sought to bind the conferees to support the Senate's amendment in advance, an irregular parliamentary procedure. An impassioned snarl resulted, broken only when, after 45 minutes of fierce debate, the Republican majority forced adjournment and turned the issue over to the Rules Committee...
...last week, except for the fact that the U. S. now has in Mexico City a new and abler-than-usual Ambassador, Dwight Whitney Morrow, onetime Morgan partner. By large business methods and with a Morgan-sized grasp of essentials, Mr. Morrow has, in four months, cut the oil snarl which has embittered the U. S. and Mexico for a full decade...
...Cambridge, Mass., a mongrel dog walked into the hallway of a lodging-house and gave a snarl. So ferocious was this snarl that Mrs. Dominic Spirito & two offspring, Mrs. Hugo Hoffman & two offspring, scurried quickly to their rooms, from the half opened doors of which they peeped down at the mongrel with frightened faces. Eleven-year-old Benjamin Guieto, observing the terrified women and children, jumped out the window and got a policeman. The policeman came up behind the prowling mongrel and shot him dead...
Greasy with sweat, a fighter slumped in his corner. To the tense manager muttering instructions in his ear he snarled helplessly. Newspapermen in the fringe of harsh white light around the ringside heard the manager snarl something about "quitter." The fisticuffer, despairing, defiant, jumped to his short legs and went through the mill. Panting, pounding, suffering, he hammered the hard little man dancing a short arm's length away. Twice he struck below the belt and was harshly called by the referee. Even he kept the battle, head jarred, hands jabbing. After a swirling fifteenth round the bell jangled...