Word: twilights
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...long ago the noted Shakespearean scholar was attending a Gilbert and Sullivan opera. Behind him, in Row J, Seat 15, sat an elderly lady; the very model of a Savoyard aunt or mother-in-law; one whom time had passed by in its fast flight, and left in the twilight of bygone days, a little unknowing. After the first act, she remarked to her companion, "It is lovely, isn't it? I wonder what Mr. Sullivan is composing now?" Whereat Professor Kittredge turned and said, "My dear lady, Mr. Sullivan is no longer composing, but decomposing...
...perfectly safe way to effect that. Chloroform, ether, nitrous oxide (laughing gas) can be used effectively for an hour or two, seldom longer. Pain is caused by uterine contractions to expel the baby. Anesthetics and narcotics inhibit those contractions, also affect the baby's respiration. ''Twilight sleep," which made mothers forget their sufferings by means of doses of morphine and scopolamine, is now generally discredited...
...Bing") Bingay, editorial director of the Detroit Free Press. Editor Bingay, bald and fat, carefully segregated the majority of U. S. newspapers as law-abiding institutions. But the yellows and the "equally sinister group that is in the twilight zone, the near yellows, which parade under a cloak of respectability," said he, "created the fiction of the gangster and then through that fiction made him into a reality." Excerpts from his speech: ". . . [Yellow] newspapers create for headline purposes catchy, attention-arresting names for the bands of marauders. In my home city ... it is the 'Purple Gang.' . . Most...
Filled with the hurry of the evening traffic Beacon Street runs on, past the Hill invaded by the Celtic horde, over its same worn brick way. In the twilight comes a glimpse, through the drawn shades, of the Bulfinch drawing rooms, and of the scrubbed and shining faces of the matrons, filled with the light of the Boston Transcript. Closed to the Boston, which is now Greater, is a world, a complete world, sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and -- sans End. Turn down an empty Glass! Or so we read in the magazines...
Storm clouds scudded low against a livid sky. In the grayness of a November twilight, a long road of sun-bleached pebbles stretched startlingly white across the barren mountain top toward a desolated ledge. The dwarfed branches of scrub oaks rattled against each other in the cold wind, but the two figures progressing toward the ledge had no heed for the night or the wind...