Word: stares
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...gather. The men stand, hands in pockets, derbies askew, smoking casually out of the side of their mouths. The women in impossible hats nudge each other and giggle. Little boys wiggle in and out among the legs of bystanders seeking a place of vantage near the paving. They all stare with English impassivity out upon the cobbles, waiting. Then, from a distance, drifts up the music of a band and someone shouts, "Hits 'im, hits the king...
...hard. Simplicist Sherwood Anderson has been puzzling his head for years over the U. S. scene. In short stories, novels and autobiography he has struggled to focus what he sees into genuine art; occasionally he has succeeded. Lately he has taken to visiting factories, watching with his trou bled stare the unselfconscious machines, the unquestioning workers. Perhaps Women, a fragmentary notebook, is the result of these brooding visitations. Not the arguable art of economics but human beings, their daft ways, their queer needs, are what fascinate Sherwood Ander son. What Anderson thinks is wrong with...
East of Third Avenue, Manhattan's 107th Street is a live and crawling thing. Sometimes, late at night, it is almost still. But even when the wretched houses stare poker-faced at nothing in the dark, fetid street there is still a strong sense of the hot, swart, teeming Italians inside. In the winter, 107th Street is piled with refuse and dirty snow. In the summer the sun beats down until it bubbles the tar. Thick, bad odors cling in the crannies, clutch at the passerby...
...decidedly curious and feeling that my reputation as a soda fountain connoisseur was at stake, I made rather extensive inquiries, but regret to say that my search was unrewarded, for every storekeeper and proprietor in Exeter answered my demand for Exeter's favorite drink with a blank stare of dismay not unmingled with surprise which showed clearly that they were questioning my perfect sanity, a fact which caused me no little embarrassment...
...William Wallace Atterbury's magnificent Pennsylvania Station in Manhattan one evening last week occurred a passing commotion. Under the grey concourse lights were gathered some 200 persons, mostly girls, some young and lithe, some young and statuesque. They made weary travelers stop and stare. Surrounded by luggage, scented with flowers and perfume, bright with jewelry, they laughed, giggled, squeaked shrilly. Flashlights were taken. In the centre of the group stood a grey-haired, hook-nosed man puffing a big cigar. He was Florenz Ziegfeld. About him were the stars, the 70 "glorified" girls, the dance directors, technical men, wardrobe mistresses...