Word: storming
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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Time passed; there seemed little hope that the 47 Workshop was going to have the facilities which the advantages of modern stagecraft afford. Then came the calm at one of the least hopeful moments in the storm. Professor Baker had accepted, now that Harvard would not or could not furnish him with an equipment, an extremely generous offer from Yale. The funds and plans were arranged: Yale, Mr. Harkness and Professor Baker had announced their mutual willingnes to cooperate in a plan which for almost fourteen years had been the hope and goal of many American people--devotees...
...nature into the too-feminine atmosphere of his spacious home. With his morning flower in its accustomed place, his quizzical brows alert, his disquieting remarks and bright-eyed scheming, his gait still reminiscent of the sailor's roll, he is the captain of his hearth, steady in domestic storm as in the days when (before magnatehood) he spoked the wheels of tall ships. The family bark reaches harbor battered but safe...
...carnality is the wrong word; perhaps you cannot apply it, for instance, to Lawrence's picture of Miss Mary Moulton Barrett for which Sir Joseph Duveen gave 74,000 guineas; perhaps you cannot call this pure and lovely miss, standing with round arms pressed to round bosoms, a storm behind her head, animation in her eyes, gauze around her legs, anything but "Pinkie...
...wisely remarks, Prohibition never seems so puerile and stringent as when one sits outside of a Parisian care thinking of the homeland. Those who are forced to endure it weather the storm amiably enough, probably never realizing their utter contemptibility. Likewise is the case with that popular being--the moron. "A moron in Europe is just a moron; to America he is something more." To be exact he is a movement, a symbol, a danger, a type he is anything but an individual. This tendency of Americans to make shibboleths of casual remarks of foreigners and men without countries...
...Story.* On a December night in 1906, a ferocious storm swept across Glebeshire. In its cathedral town of Polchester (by the river, by the sea) in her old, old house in Canon's Yard, sat Mrs. Penethen, respected, kindly widow. She sat by her kitchen fire, her skirt drawn up to her knees, her toes resting on a woolworked cushion. She was to admit to her home that night, against her will and yet somehow with all her heart, a vast foreigner: a simple Swede, a blond HerculesApollo, whose strangely formal card contained the words: Hjalmar Johanson, Gymnastic Instructor...