Word: whoever
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Harvard's new players, on the other hand, have not all proved their worth. Meadows and Saltonstall, the ends, have done exceedingly well in the early contests, but neither has played in a contest of major importance. Putnam and French are brilliant Sophomores whose big test comes today. Whoever replaces Daley at guard, whether it be Simonds, Goodwin, or Stewart--the chances favor Simonds--will be in his first big game. Gamache, like Dooley, played two years ago, but unlike the Indian star, did not emerge from their contest covered with glory. Captain Coady was not in the starting lineup...
...Whoever wrote this book (and it must have been a woman) is capable of endowing synthetic images with all the tangibility of unsatisfactory reality. The senile Earl, convinced that she is some patrician Griselda of fifty years ago, takes her into the ancient garden and loads her with roses; and the barmaid's grand-daughter feeling the aristocratic half of her ancestry partakes momentarily in all the slim, high haughtiness that must have been Griselda's. At the other end of the scale stands Miss Tiverton's black cat, sleek and scornful the most satisfactory cat since Dick Whittington...
...taking his pleasure. He died in 1705 and the rug passed through the estates of a series of princes. Connoisseurs who have seen it in the Vienna museum say that it is the most beautiful rug in the world. Assuredly it is the most famous. Its designer, whoever he was, must have dreamed its pattern many times before he dared to record it. Such spraying valleys, such a flight of flowers and beasts, are the speech of a man who loved the world and knew its changing story. Reds ring together like swords clashing in a book; the silver...
That question enters and reenters the mind of whoever watches (from behind a pillar) the roaring revolutions, evolutions, devolutions of Mr. Skinner's cane; the extravagant movements of his beaver. The play really need never be played. Melodrama has died its natural death. And even French melodrama with occasional wit is brief in its amusement...
...meat as that which now faced him across the net. Wetzel said nothing. He was so angry now that he could not speak, nor could he see the ball. Nobility won the set 9-7 and changed courts for the third, remarking, as he sniffed the air, that whoever had last played on that side had made it stink fearfully of the kitchen. Young Wetzel threw down his racket. The match went to nobility by default...