Word: fist
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...book is an improvement on its forerunners: Dreiser is no longer content to draw a caricature with his fist; he attempts to paint a portrait, and regards his villain with some compassion. Cowperwood is loyal to the wife he does not love, and sincerely devoted to his mistress. He never repents his deeds, or sees a need to, but he makes a futile attempt at good works by endowing, in his will, a charity hospital. This escape-hatch from hell is closed, however, when the ill-gained wealth is dissipated by executors, lawyers and heirs...
...Goes Grain. Tall, aggressive John McDowell, Manitoba legislator-farmer who had campaigned for ending controls and reopening the Exchange, shouted down the rest with his stentorian "Ninety-five for May oats." (The ceiling had been 65? a bushel.) Across the pit a hopped-up trader with right fist up, knuckles outward, all fingers clenched (indicating no fractions) shrieked: "Sold!" A boy chalked the quotation on the board. In a few moments, barley opened at $1.25 (May delivery), up 32? from a 93? ceiling...
After being cooped up in one room for a month, Chapp and the two gunners (both from Pennsylvania) grew tired of looking at each other. Says Chapp: "The other two boys went a little wacky and I guess I did too. I wanted to double up my fist and slug them so many times." What made life bearable for them was the generosity and courage of the Ugolini family, whose house they hid in-father, mother and two pretty daughters, Gina, 23, and Wally, 20. Gina and Wally brought the boys hot water, their meals, and the only English book...
...mother who suckles her babe upon her own breast, any bitch in fact who litters her periodical brood of pups, presents to my imagination a vastly nearer and sweeter Divine charm. . . . Against this lurid power-half-pedagogue, half-policeman, but wholly imbecile in both aspects-I . . . raise my gleeful fist, I lift my scornful foot." This kind of "elegant Billingsgate," as his friend Ralph Waldo Emerson called it, found almost no audience...
...Editor smiles and says he will fix that. And he does. He gets me a grey pin-striped suit, double-breasted, with shoulders that I can grab in my fist and make look like a football. The Editor doesn't forget anything. He finds me a tie that leaves me as flat as warm beer, and then insists I put a ruptured duck in the lapel of the suit, and find a shirt that isn't button-down. The hat I wear looks like something out of the Front Page...