Word: thrust
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...have shuffled over the sand waves and stony wastes of the Moroccan Desert in "the war that never ends." The French War Ministry has steadily issued dispatches calling it "a campaign of pacification," noting "resistance of rebellious tribesmen." Actually fierce, Berber horsemen have been fighting a costly war of thrust and ambush, much like the Indian wars of the western U. S. last century. The Berbers are a white race occasionally producing a blue-eyed blond. Unlike the Arabs who once conquered them, they are honest and straightforward. Their active, often pretty women go unveiled, enjoy more rights than Arab...
Hands on hips, chin thrust forward, General Julius Gömbs, the heel-clicking Premier of Hungary, faced correspondents in his country's Legation at Rome last week, bright-eyed with satisfaction at ne gotiations which he had just concluded with Premier Mussolini...
...forces," said Dr. Heim, "which have waved, lifted, folded, crumpled, thrust and faulted the earth's crust . . . seem to be regarded as the result of the earth's energetic reserve. If so, each crustal movement should mean a lessening of the total reserve of earth's energy, so that succeeding . . . movements should be smaller than earlier ones. . . . This does not seem to be borne out by the facts...
...Emsworth, whose brother. Hon. Galahad Threepwood, has written and suppressed a book of racy reminiscences which Lord Tilbury yearns to publish, and whose Empress has lately been nobbled (kidnapped) and is by way of being nobbled again. Which is why Lord Tilbury is seized by his beefy scruff and thrust into a dark and dirty shed. And why young Monty Bodkin, his discharged subeditor, regains employment with His Lordship. And why, since the ms. of the racy reminiscences is the other jewel of the plot, the Empress ultimately makes a meal of said ms. and, one complication having thus consumed...
...disposed of Shelley's corpse were Poet Leigh Hunt (who wrote a nerve-wracking description of the event), Poet George Gordon Lord Byron, and Adventurer Edward John Trelawny. As Shelley's incinerating ribs fell apart on their pyre of driftwood, adventurous Trelawny, a lion of a man, thrust in his brawny arm, snatched out the simmering heart. Cried Lord Byron: ''Don't repeat this with me. Let my carcass rot where it falls...