Word: strand
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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Tiptoeing cautiously ahead of her automobile a hawk-nosed British dowager in a mink coat prowled down the middle of the street. ''Come on, Oscar, come on, we seem to be in the Strand!" cried...
...curb pedestrians were completely lost. Conductors carrying great sizzling gasoline flares stalked like old-time linkboys ahead of their buses. Many a scarlet omnibus caught fire from the heat of repeatedly jammed brakes. A pair of wild ducks, lost and dizzy, dropped quacking disconsolately in the middle of the Strand. Rail traffic was paralyzed. A Wimbledon train sat on a siding for hours while fog-bound commuters, jamming every compartment, sang "Who's Afraid of the Big Black...
That was in 1903, and for 20 years P. G. Wodehouse has been quite as well known in Collier's, Satevepost, Liberty and American Magazine as in the London Globe and Strand Magazine. He used to tear off hundreds of short stories a year, but now confines himself to seven or eight, with one or two full-length ones on the side. He "taps" (typewrites) methodically from 10 a. m. until one, rewriting everything at least three times to concentrate and sharpen the effervescent prolixity of his style. Like most humorists he folds inward in public but is seldom...
...round and far more sunburned than the Capitol dome- of Senator Duncan Upshaw Fletcher. The venerable Senator might have been spared that ordeal. He might have returned to his constituents and sat with proper refreshment under the palm trees where the Atlantic laps on Florida's coral strand. His age, 74, entitled him to that surcease. Forty years as a holder of public office-in the Florida Legislature, as Mayor of Jacksonville, as U. S. Senator (for 24 consecutive years )-have dowered him richly with the privileges of seniority. Yet he stayed in Washington, by his own choice...
...poet than most poets, more like a sea-captain. Unclubbable, retiring, he lives in London's suburbs with his wife and four children, when he goes to the city likes to eat a hearty English lunch at such an ungossamer, unghostly chophouse as Simpson's on the Strand...