Word: somberness
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Consultation & Cerebration. The man who must make the final decisions has been unwontedly somber since he returned to Washington last week. He has held only one press conference since August. He showed none of the old relish for open combat when confronted with the steel industry's price increase or the transit workers' strike in New York City. But the familiar ebullience has not vanished entirely; it has simply been capped for the time being, like a gusher in a Texas oil field. With his three biggest messages of the year coming up in the next few weeks...
...with Emperor Hirohito and Empress Nagako. Next stop was Manila, where Humphrey attended the inauguration of the Philippines' new President, Ferdinand E. Marcos (see THE WORLD). Later that day, Humphrey flew to Clark Air Force Base, the staging hospital for all U.S. casualties from Viet Nam, spent a somber, occasionally tearful hour visiting wounded G.I.s. After Manila, the Vice President spread good will in Taipei and Seoul before heading home to give Lyndon back his Air Travel card...
Fatal Humiliation. Among half a dozen other gangland obituaries in the past year, the boys also recall the somber fate of Murray ("The Camel") Humphreys, a gangland fixer who could smooth out any legal or political hump-and leave no tracks at all in the underworld sand. When he also was called before a grand jury, The Camel lost his cool. Rather than land in jail for silence or six feet under for talking, he lied-so ineffectually that he was hauled in on a perjury charge. That night, out on bail and back in his Marina City Towers suite...
...Lord affords a feast of anachronisms, the choicest assigned to his lordship's quarrelsome sibling (Guy Stockwell, brother of Dean), who ends one clash with the withering retort: "I hate your knightly guts." Scenarists Millard Kaufman and John Collier share credit for this adaptation of The Lovers, a somber play by Leslie Stevens that lasted less than a week on Broadway. The movie version runs on and on and on, but proves nothing whatever about the survival of the fittest...
...produce a cheese with the clout and consistency of a plastic bomb. The sun still sank blood-red behind the Sanguinary Isles, while local folk singers recalled the prowess of Bonaparte in their atonal anthem, L'Ajaccienne. A calm enough scene-until early last summer, when the somber, somnolent island awoke to the 20th century. Suddenly, bombs exploded in the night, and walls proclaimed the scrawled slogan: "Corsica for the Corsicans!" By last week, the Corsican question had even entered France's presidential campaign. Rightist Candidate Jean-Louis Tixier-Vignancour stormed across the island, hoping to turn Corsican...