Word: spitted
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: during 1940-1949
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...candidates held several joint debates. But Margaret Smith carried her campaign to places where a house with a shed is called a village. Whenever she could get away from Washington, she hustled back to Maine. Booted & bemittened, on days when the fog was so thick a man could hardly spit, on days when the natives allowed "it wuz cold enough to freeze two dry rags together," she made the rounds of the state. In Bangor, she fell and broke her arm, stubbornly insisted on keeping a speaking date four hours later...
...shoulder and its dazzling whiteness, some sort of craziness possessed me; instead of putting my lips to the cheek she offered me, fascinated by her dazzling shoulder, I gave it a great bite . . . My cousin screamed with pain and I with horror. She began to bleed and I to spit with disgust...
Fort Apache (Argosy; RKO Radio), John Ford's first movie since his apostolically solemn Fugitive, is an unabashed potboiler. An idiotically reckless martinet (nicely played by Henry Fonda) tries to impose spit & polish on a begallused garrison in the Far West. After leading a suicidal charge against the local Indians, he is posthumously adored as a hero-except by the men (John Wayne, et al.) who had to carry out his orders. His daughter, a stock Pert Chit by the name of Philadelphia Thursday (Shirley Temple), meanwhile romances with a young officer (played, in appropriate magazine-illustration style...
...high standard you have led people to expect. ... I profoundly agree with the thesis of the writer that there was something more human and greater than "mysticism" in Gandhi. But the "notably unmystical metaphor" which you attribute to him-"If we Indians could only spit in unison, we would form a puddle big enough to drown 300,000 Englishmen"-was never uttered...
There it sat, an $18 million imitation English village, spang in the midst of the Connecticut countryside. An eccentric old woman had built Avon Old Farms as the spit & image of a Cotswold village, with carefully warped roofs, rippled window panes, synthetically worn stairs. She had meant it for a boys' school. There were no students at Avon last week. The only sign of schoolboy life was a boy named Butch, busy tacking up college pennants in a monklike cubicle in one of the dormitories, installing model airplanes, and littering up the joint after the fashion of twelve-year...