Word: stared
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Next to the Paraguayan embassy's main entrance on bustling Calle Via-monte in downtown Buenos Aires, a small, dark doorway ducks down into a forbidding, grottolike cellar. A bored cop stands guard outside, and some times passers-by stop to stare. For seven years, nine months, two weeks and a few odd days, the cellar has been home to Brothers Juan Carlos Cardoso, 46, and Luis Amadeo Cardoso, 41, making them easily the current champions in that treasured Latin American institution known as political asylum. Only Peru's Victor Raul Haya de la Torre, who fled...
Murder at the Gallop. A body lies on the floor. A little to one side, on all fours, crouches a fat old bloodhound. Its ears are pendulous, its muzzle is prominent, its bloodshot eyes stare dolefully out of enormous pouches. "Dead!" the bloodhound woofs with astonishment, and then, with a dramatic flourish of its dewlaps, the comical creature rears up on its skinny hind legs and goes waddling off on the scent of the killer...
...They stare at the bandstand in monkish silence, nodding sagely to the rhythm of drums and bass. Every song is a séance for them, and they listen with every muscle. They are devout, transported, almost catatonic, and when the music stops, there is a little lost moment while their eyes blink and they heave the sigh of the far voyager come home. Then they smile approvingly and say, "Yeah...
...which is placed to the far left, but a day in the life of Venice. Yet, instead of a realistic picture of daily activity, Carpaccio has painted something close to a dream. His people go about their business as if in a trance; their eyes do not meet or stare out at the viewer, for almost every figure seems to be looking in a private direction of his own. No detail of Venice's rich architecture is overlooked, yet the city, with its innumerable chimneys, seems imaginary. And finally, there is the color-perfectly balanced, magnificently muted, not quite...
Talking with Guns. Along Israel's 600 miles of frontier with its hostile neighbors of Egypt, Syria, Jordan, and Lebanon, there are still great stretches of no man's land. From foxholes and trenches now well ensconced in olive groves, Jew and Arab stare bitterly at one another, firing on anything that moves. Would-be infiltrators cause few diplomatic headaches, a U.N. media tor wryly explains, because "we simply repatriate the corpses." Bisecting the city of Jerusalem is a grim buffer zone of tangled barbed wire and antitank dragon's feet, flanked by concrete pill boxes...