Word: darked
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...daub of foam and then a dark hulk appeared on the surface of the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Provincetown, Mass., last week. The Navy submarine S-4 had been raised from the bottom of the sea, exactly 15 minutes less than three months after it had been gored by the Coast Guard destroyer Paulding (TIME, Dec. 26). It was towed to the Navy Yard at Boston for inspection. Six bodies covered with mud and slime were found in the torpedo compartment. But nowhere was a written record of the horrible last hours of those bodies...
...life I saw the pictured face of Eugene O'Neill: on my writing table was a . . . portrait of Andreyev. I placed my hand over the lower part of O'Neill's face, and our Leonid's eyes confronted me, his fine brow and wave of dark hair (tidier, though). As to my hopeful expectation regarding TIME it is more than satisfied...
Twice she circled the globe, and many times she wandered off into Arabia on a quest for pure joy. "Can you picture," she cries, "the singular beauty of these moonlight departures! The frail Arab tents falling one by one . . . dark masses of the kneeling camels . . . shrouded figures . . ." These things lured Gertrude Bell into desert lands and kept her prowling there, writing books on archeology, writing others on the land & people which British officers later conned furiously as they set sail to fight the Near Eastern campaigns of the World...
Handsome, stocky, dark, and dapper, Gene Sarazen, walked round a golf course at Nassau with dour Johnny Farrell, voted the best dressed U. S. golfer. At the ninth hole Sarazen was a stroke behind. At the seventeenth he was all even. He sank his approach shot on the eighteenth for a birdie 2. Farrell's 15-foot putt hit the back of the cup and bounced out. Sarazen, who goes to Nassau yearly for a sunburn, had won the open championship of the Bahama Islands. In St. Augustine, Fla., Glenna Collett, favorite daughter of Providence...
Follows matter enough for a dozen penny dreadfuls, threepenny thrillers: a fight with sledgehammer and dirk in the lurid shadows of a gypsy fire-Claire's body gleaming white but for the dark cords that bind her ankles and wrists; a struggle in the dank blackness of a railway tunnel which a gang of Claire's suitors blockade at one end, while others sneak in opposite: "Kill the man, but save the wench! . . ."A relic of civilized scruple holds Martin from killing a hairy giant furnaceman, because he has sprawled over the tracks and technically is down...