Word: vow
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...faces that bespeak of southern holidaying. A lucky few with ruddy faces who had found snow in which to ski and rub the protesting faces of their loves. And all to the great irritation of the Vagabond, shouting a Happy New Year. Then and there he makes a solemn vow never to wish more than one such felicitation. Repetition strains the worth of sentiment. Besides, the wisdom of being happy about the New Year is doubtful. Better to wish a Happy Mid-Year's or a Merry Reading Period... The Vagabond ambles aimlessly, until he meets with a Radcliffe friend...
...take it, Gentlemen" but when they pieced together such facts as there were, these would seldom or never fit what the Lord-in-Waiting had said. Brownlow's greatest feat was to go for a long ride with Mrs. Simpson, closely followed by correspondents, and alight to vow on his sacred honor as an English Lord-in-Waiting that "not a single word" had passed the lips of Mrs. Simpson. She had been seen moving them at Lord Brownlow brightly...
...brought up a difficult question. "What," Domini asks, "am I to do?" "Go away . . . perhaps, to the desert," says the Mother Superior. This is bad advice. First person Domini meets in the desert is Boris Andtovsky (Charles Boyer), a renegade Trappist monk out to discover, after breaking his vow of lifelong silence, just what it is that makes the world go round. When he has scraped acquaintance with Domini in a night club, they go riding. Without telling her that the only job that he has ever held was that of liqueur cook in the monastery, Boris proposes marriage. Domini...
...London's Albert Hall last week Son Austen called on an audience of Tory imperialists to vow, in memory of the "first Englishman to see in his mind the British Empire as it is seen today in fact," that "not one yard of territory shall be torn from the Empire." Sir Austen read a telegram of congratulation from King Edward VIII. A portrait of Old Joe 50 ft. high was unveiled and the crowd could not help seeing the striking resemblance to Son Austen on the platform...
Oldsters in Clubland. In gouty circles of extreme Tory diehardism last week elderly Britons were incautiously beginning to vow in their London clubs that "By Gad, Sir, this Rearmament will give us back Old England!" They were cocksure that the proletariat, kept increasingly busy and well paid on munitions orders, will make no trouble and that Imperial Defense will work out in such a way as to squash even those malcontents the Free State Irish by transferring to the west of the British Isles beyond the immediate reach of German air attack enormous new concentrations of Might...