Word: bleaknesses
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...might have been built to either of them, but there was nothing for it but to ally the two and call it Winthrop House. There can be no question that externally it is the most drab and austere of all the Houses. The Students' Common Room is a rather bleak expanse which suppresses rather than fosters congeniality, the dining room with its undershot alcove has a bit of the steamship about it but is an interesting architectural device and serves its proper purpose. Confronted by the Statler-like dining room of Standish the designers strove mightily to transform it into...
...flip gigolo (Ben Lyon) and an elderly fortune hunter (Albert Conti), who commits suicide when she declines his offer of marriage. Returned to the U. S., she finds that her subterfuges, though a shade more extreme than she had intended them to be, have answered their purpose. A bleak young man of fashion (David Manners) rebukes her at a dance and follows her eagerly into the street when she leaves, as she had hoped he would. Good shot: Constance Bennett falling fast asleep in a café and dreaming that her gigolo has become overenthusiastic about his duties...
Devonshire, pleasantest county in Britain, has a bleak centre. Midway between Plymouth and Exeter lies Dartmoor, a silent ocean of grey, treeless hills that support nothing but gorse, primroses in spring, and a few water-logged sheep. In its middle lies a grim, grey prison...
...Devonshire there stands the grey walls of the most hated building in England. Sprawled along a bleak headland Dartmoor rises out of the wildest and most desolate stretch of land in all the British Isles. The original buildings were erected in 1809 to confine the French prisoners from the Emperor's army. Later some of the Americans in the war of 1812 found there way to its barren courtyard. At that time Dartmoor established a reputation for cruelty and discomfort which is now almost legendary in its fame. In 1850 the building assumed its present status of a convict prison...
...hill to school. A tall pine stands out in the pasture with the blackness of a widow in her weeds. There is the delicate, syncopated tinkle as a Morgan in a red cutter swerves through town. The mountains stare down upon the valleys grown old, and spare, and bleak over night. Young boughs trail their white burden on the road way. In the woods, where the sun falls, snow slides off the needles and drops with a soft thud. A tiny rabbit scurries off on hastily remembered business and a grouse whirrs up into the blue. The world is quiet...