Word: umbrellas
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Dates: during 1940-1949
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This letter was circulated in Britain last week. Reginald Pinkerton, its author, is a thin-lipped, jug-eared bachelor of 49 who grasps his rolled umbrella with wary grip, never knowing when he may be attacked by a predatory female. In his young days, as a clerk in a grocery store, Reginald Pinkerton learned to fear housewives. He willingly fought through all of World War I, a man's affair. Then he took a job as a bank clerk in Argentina, where woman's place is in the home. Returning to England in 1926, he "observed the havoc...
Brittle Arteries. "An angry well-dressed Frenchman about fifty years of age, who looked out of place on the rue de la Huchette, was pummeling with his folded umbrella a young man who bore him a strong family resemblance." The young man fled into the Hotel du Caveau. His name was Pierre Vautier. It turned out that he had defied his father by quitting St. Cyr (the French West Point) and taking a job in an art gallery. "It was a small gallery that specialized in ultramodern paintings of the neo-Cubistic school, the sight or mention of which...
Along the stately crescent of Regent Street the Londoner stepped out briskly without his winter rubbers. He wore his beige raincoat and had his umbrella at the ready, but he swung it; the air was soft and the lengthening days were heady. He forgot to notice that the sidewalks would be wider if the sandbags could be removed, that the skyline was neater before the bombs fell. A car starting up suddenly might make him jump. His children, when they hid in closets and crawled under chairs, informed him pertly that they were playing "shelter." But almost no one said...
...guns of Navy ships. The parachutists joined the troops on the beach, embarked under a shield of Navy shellfire, and the whole force moved triumphantly off under a screen of fighter planes. German fighters buzzed up in angry pursuit, but they bounced, for the most part, off the British umbrella...
...author has come a long way since the days, three years ago when, under the Munich umbrella, he was a Varsity oarsman and sports editor of Oxford's undergraduate paper; days when he dared not let himself consider the time gone out of his life, "first at school, now at the University, which had been sweated away upon the river, earnestly peering one way and going the other." Today, of all the friendly clique of athletic esthetes, the "long-haired boys" who went down from Oxford to the R.A.F. training camps in the autumn of 1939, Australian-born Richard...