Word: twilighter
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Dates: during 1920-1929
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...foggy twilight last week, New York radio stations suddenly stopped broadcasting and the air was filled with SOS calls. While radio listeners wondered what the silence might portend, there was administered in the outer reaches of New York Harbor what might be called perfect disaster treatment. It began when passengers on the British steamship Fort Victoria, inching along in the soupy mist toward Bermuda, heard the bedlam of fog warnings, the fierce, hoarse blasts of a whistle which seemed altogether too near. Then the prow of the Clyde liner Algonquin, outbound for Galveston, loomed out of the murk and buried...
...twilight the machine guns on the walls were quiet, still waiting. A thousand people and a regiment of militia were at the gates. An airplane droned overhead. Death came for the rioters across the yard, up into the cell block, past the barricades which they had piled up with mattresses, chairs, beds at corners where they could shoot down a corridor two ways and back up to a stairway. Troopers told a convict named Johnson, who was helping them, to pull a mattress off a barricade. A bullet stopped Johnson when he took his first step. A bullet stopped Captain...
Aguilar Lutes. Some years ago a Spanish gentleman, by name Don Francisco Aguilar, was returning home after one of his days spent as royal physician at the Court of young King Alfonso. Passing through one of Madrid's ancient, crooked streets in the still twilight, he stopped to listen to a blind musician. The man's face was tinted and seamed like a Rembrandt burgomaster's. The instrument on which he played was even more unusual. Most people would have called it an outlandish guitar or mandolin. But Don Francisco, cultivated, scholarly, knew it for a lute...
Jean Frenchman and his sturdy wife are supposed to shrug at politics, but one twilight last week they swallowed their soupe a l'oignon early, then turned out at least 10,000 strong to wait in chattering throngs around the Chamber of Deputies...
...uniformed soldier in his cortege, which was led by members of his Leipzig student corps, bearing his student cap, which now lies with him in his grave. The funeral's pace was set by the dull thudding "Death March" from Gö;tterdämmerung (The Twilight of the Gods*), interrupted by low, whining air planes from which whipped taut black streamers. One automobile was in the procession, that of Widow Stresemann. Led by grizzled President von Hindenburg, who left the sad line at the Foreign Office, other mourners stalked solemnly afoot to the graveyard...