Word: terrorisms
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...Escampobar lived Citizen Scevola Bron, hysterical, jealous, ex-sansculotte, who mourned for the bloody days of the bygone Terror. The rightful mistress of the farm was lovely Arlette, whom the village thought half-demented -Scevola had saved her body from the massacre that exterminated her Royalist parents, but the memory of the shrieks and the blood of that massacre still walked like a ghost through her mind. Her aunt, the upright, deliberate, tireless Catherine, asserted her a doomed object of God's particular wrath, a fatal woman, not for any man's arms...
...Grand Guignol.* Manhattan had steeled itself too sternly against the advent of this reign of terror. The horrors failed to horrify. Accordingly those who came to cringe remained to scoff, and the opening was declared just another one of those things...
...fortunately this terror has been shortlived, for tonight's Transcript, in its leading news item, has revealed a very important fact which the CRIMSON reporter missed. The Transcript has found what the purpose of the Harvard Klan really is. Their program is not one of tar and feathers, neither are whipping parties for the assistant deans contemplated. "The main object of the Klan at Harvard is to institute compulsory chapel." This article has brought a vast amount of relief to Cambridge, for terrible as the prospect of compulsory chapel may be, yet it is mild compared with those things which...
...most Harvard students the vagaries of the Ku Klux Klan have in the past been rather "an innocent source of merriment" than a cause for terror or agitation; only a small minority of unbalanced impressionists has been drawn within the folds of the "Invisible Empire" by the glamor and prejudice of its appeal. And there is little reason to believe that these conditions are radically altered in the present. Unless Harvard individualism--or Harvard indifference, as the critics have it,--is a thing of the past, the University will never be swept by the cheap and ignorant iraternalism of Kleagles...
...Creep Into the Flesh? It was nearly half past three in the morning. Somewhere a clock tolled the hour-twelve long strokes. Down the shadow-shrouded stairway moved a skeleton, clad only in a pair of violet pajamas. Softly, sibilantly, the spectre sped. An errant mouse cried out in terror, his hoarse shriek breaking the tense stillness. At the foot of the stairs a single, shining shaft of moonshine drenched the leg of a human being, severed at the knee, lying in a pool of gore. Arsenic Hatpin, gentleman capitalist, inserted a single eyeglass deftly into one of his eyes...