Word: intented
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City dwellers with beery intent slip into shadowy doorways, knock or ring cabalistically, whisper passwords through peepholes, gratings, chained portals. Dry-voting country dwellers blithely bear in the grape and the apple, press the ripe fruit, catch the juice, hoard it away. When winter comes they have a convivial cup. Long and loudly have urbanites protested this disparity of Prohibition. Last week city men envied country men when Prohibition Commissioner James M. Doran issued to his agents this edict: "The National Prohibition act authorizes . . . unrestricted manufacture of non-intoxicating cider and fruit juice in the home. . . . Conditions: . . . 1) it shall...
With the Bremen sliding eastward intent on breaking her own record, rival steamship lines talked speed, planned competition. The White Star Line announced revised plans for the 60,000 ton Oceanic, whose keel, half laid, lies rusting in a Belfast yard. The U. S. Lines, freed somewhat of the shackles of Prohibition, planned two super-Leviathans to steam 32 knots (38 m.p.h.). Similar detailed announcements came from the Cunard and Italian lines...
...Manhattan dailies?Times, Herald Tribune, World, Sun?with many a news-sending device at their command, last week had not yet signified intent to subscribe nor had the big news services, Associated Press, United Press...
Among the first to arrive at the Members' Entrance was pepper-tongued Lady Nancy Astor, Virginia Conservative. Springing from her car before it had stopped she dashed into the building closely followed by Lt. Col. Sir Frederick Hall, a fellow Conservative. Both were intent on obtaining a certain comfortable corner seat on the Opposition benches. The instant the doors were opened, in they dashed with 40 other early arrivals. Lady Astor paused for an instant to take a card from an attendant with which to stake her seat. It was a fatal pause. Sir Frederick Hall kept going...
...sweltering khaki-clad detachment of the Foreign Legion, finally a black-skinned, red-fezzed detachment of stalwart Senegalese. The column entered the pass called El Bordj. Nothing is there but blistering rocks, flat, cracked stretches of baked mud. The French column, losing contact with their flank outposts, pushed forward intent on reaching the evening's camp...