Word: thighed
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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Bernard Shaw, convalescing nicely from his broken left thigh bone, had, as usual, plenty of other things to complain about. Once a doctor heard him shriek "Stop her," rushed in to find the white bearded playwright on his stomach with a nurse rubbing oil into his skin. "But Mr. Shaw," the doctor said, "she's only doing that to keep you from getting bed sores. It's nothing at all." "Nothing at all?" howled Shaw. "Who's bottom is she playing with anyway...
...legs give in before your head does, and you are always stumbling about. I tumble down about three times a week quite regularly . . ." Fortnight ago, while walking in the garden of his home at Ayot St. Lawrence in Hertfordshire, the 94-year-old playwright fell and broke his left thigh bone. Carted off to Luton and Dunstable Hospital, he soon got into an argument about his 74-year-old once-red beard, which the anesthetists wanted snipped. Shaw won by having the offending whiskers plastered to his face. Next day, in his cream-and-green private room, with his fractured...
...produce partial abstractions that merely pleased the eye. "Sometimes," he told admirers at the show's opening, "I see the form in my mind and it grows and grows as I work. I am happy when I am hacking out; I never want to stop." Smoothing the thigh of his Dancing Figure with a pink-palmed hand, he sighed and added: "But when I must finish off my work, smooth the surface and polish-then I get bored. The creation is gone...
Emery, hit in the side, thigh and foot, was suffering from shock. Nevertheless he managed to dictate a distraught account ("It had been a physical and mental ordeal beyond my powers to describe") to Correspondent Frank Conniff of Hearst's New York Journal-American, which splashed it across Page One-as did other Hearst papers. Churchill, who also got back under his own power, had a half-dollar-sized hole in his shin. But he calmly dictated a smooth, well-told story of the patrol to the Associated Press's Hal Boyle, to be sent...
First & Third Degree. Along the wall a guard of honor was drawn up-a dozen boys and young men in rumpled Stetsons. The smallest, aged 14, whose head barely reached above my thigh, beat a drum; the tallest, who came up to my chin, proudly carried an old but carefully polished rifle. This was a detachment of Bai Trang's Anti-Communist Youth and Children's Leagues...