Word: ghostly
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...Landon, occasionally jabbing an elbow in the ribs of the Union League boys and with a come-hither grin for agriculture and industry, is content to go inching along to the Republican promised land. . . . Both conventions were similar, indeed all political conventions are like some vast Indian powwow, a ghost dance making mystic political medicine. ... It is the only voodoo we have in this country-tom-toms, brass cymbals, horns, raucous mechanical noises, yawping howling men, screeching hysterical women, savage dancing, waving banners and oratory. . . ." Of President Roosevelt's acceptance speech immediately following the Democratic Convention in Philadelphia, Author...
...last of a $7,000,000 Works Progress Administration appropriation gave out, left the War Department holding a collection of trim homes, shops, warehouses built for the project's administrative workers on a sandy strand near Eastport. The skeleton staff decamped and 'Quoddy Village became a ghost town...
...Kansan. Curtis' President Walter Dean Fuller was delighted to announce that Mr. Stout shared Mr. Lorimer's beliefs in "fundamental American doctrines." A graduate of the Kansas City Star, Wesley Winans Stout has been one of the Post's associates for twelve years, has written and ghost-written many an article. Last week he set out on a motor trip with his wife for a brief vacation before slipping his solid, substantial and Republican person into George Horace Lorimer's editorial chair before the first of the year...
...ghost of a Florentine monk who died in 1317 had appeared in Chicago last week, it could have pointed a spectral finger at 59 men and one woman, members of the American Academy of Optometrists, and intoned: "Your means of livelihood you owe mostly to me." In a Vienna museum stands a statue of this medieval monk, with a pair of glasses in one hand and bearing this inscription: Here lies Salvina D'Armato degli Armati of Florence, the inventor of spectacles. May God forgive his sins...
Hero-narrator of Author Sandemose's book, however, is not a retired litterateur but a retired murderer. Espen Arnakke, 34, has settled in Norway, become a respectable paterfamilias. Still haunted by the memory of the murder he committed 17 years ago, he tries to lay the ghost by telling the story of his life. But it is less a story than a one-sided conversation, a kind of soliloquery which wanders, digresses, returns again & again to the problem: why should this little boy have grown up to be a murderer? Author Sandemose's eccentrically concentric chronicle is impressively...