[89956] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
Get The Thicker, Fuller hair You deserve.
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Keranique Offer)
Thu Oct 13 07:04:06 2016
Date: Thu, 13 Oct 2016 07:04:05 -0400
To: mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu
From: Keranique Offer <keraniqueoffer@keranllo.top>
Reply-to: Keranique Offer <keraniqueoffer@keranllo.top>
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enormous coal fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such 4oj as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great,
intense mhi of pure red 8ci4oj fire. i4oj at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing bw7k8cioj a loose grey suit, and
sprawling in the i4oj large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across bw7k8cioj which a few pure hairs glittered. His chin was sunk on his rest,
so that his sparse but strong-haired white beard, in which every strand stood distinct, like spun glhi lithe and elastic, curved now upwards and inwards, in a curious w7k8ci4j
curve returning upon him. He seemed to be sunk in stern, prophet-like meditation. As a matter of fact, he was asleep after a heavy meal. i4oj
Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and i4oj bright in the French mode.
She had strangely-drawn eyebrows, and her colour was brilliant. She was hot, leaning back behind the shaft of old marble of the 8ci4oj mantel-piece, to escape the fire. k8ci4oj She
wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves 4oj and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to.
Jim Bricknell ci4oj himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat 4oj in a chair in 8ci4oj front of the fire, ci4oj some distance back, and stretched his long
legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead 4oj was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, i4oj he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little
tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish. Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and bottles. It was k8ci4oj
evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for w7k8ci4j choice. He wanted to get fat — that was his idea. But he couldn’t bring it off: he was thin, though not too
thin, except to his own thinking. His sister Julia was bunched up in w7k8ci4j a low chair between him and his father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up like a
witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke out i4oj of ci4oj the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight, untidy strands. Yet she had real beauty. She
was talking to the young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young w7k8ci4j fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend.
The only other person stood at the round table pouring out k8ci4oj red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband,
Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to 8ci4oj be demobilised, when he 8ci4oj would become a sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes grew a little moist. The
room was hotand subdued, everyone was silent. “I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear —“anybody havea drink? Don’t you find it bw7k8cioj
rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of 4oj beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes — I think there is,” said Robert. .
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<p>enormous coal fire. In this house there was no coal-rationing. The finest coal was arranged to obtain a gigantic glow such 43y as a coal-owner may well enjoy, a great, </p>
<BR />
<p align="center">
intense mhi of pure red exi43y fire. i43y at this fire Alfred Bricknell toasted his tan, lambs-wool-lined slippers. He was a large man, wearing 59poexi3y a loose grey suit, and </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="right" style="font: 15px;">
sprawling in the i43y large grey arm- chair. The soft lamp-light fell on his clean, bald, Michael-Angelo head, across 59poexi3y which a few pure hairs glittered. His chin was sunk on his rest, </p>
<BR />
<p align="center" style="font: 15px;">
so that his sparse but strong-haired white beard, in which every strand stood distinct, like spun glhi lithe and elastic, curved now upwards and inwards, in a curious 9poexi4y </p>
<BR />
<p align="center" style="font: 15px;">
curve returning upon him. He seemed to be sunk in stern, prophet-like meditation. <B>As a matter of fact, he was asleep after a heavy meal.</B> i43y </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif, Helvetica, Arial;"></span>
<p align="right" style="font: 16px;">
Across, seated on a pouffe on the other side<i> of the fire, was a cameo- like girl with neat black hair done tight and i43y bright in the French</i> mode. </p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;"></span>
<p align="left">
She had strangely-drawn eyebrows, and her colour was brilliant. She was hot, leaning back behind the shaft of old marble of the exi43y mantel-piece, to escape the fire. oexi43y She </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="left">
wore a simple dress of apple- green satin, with full sleeves 43y and ample skirt and a tiny bodice of green cloth. This was Josephine Ford, the girl Jim was engaged to. </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="center" style="font: 16px;">
Jim Bricknell xi43y himself was a tall big fellow of thirty-eight. He sat 43y in a chair in exi43y front of the fire, xi43y some distance back, and stretched his long </p>
<BR />
<p align="right" style="font: 14px;">
legs far in front of him. His chin too was sunk on his rest, his young forehead 43y was bald, and raised in odd wrinkles, i43y he had a silent half-grin on his face, a little </p>
<BR /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"></span>
<p>
tipsy, a little satyr-like. His small moustache was reddish. Behind him a round table was covered with cigarettes, sweets, and bottles. It was oexi43y </p>
<BR />
<p>
evident Jim Bricknell drank beer for 9poexi4y choice. He wanted to get fat — that was his idea. But he couldn’t bring it off: he was thin, though not too </p>
<BR />
<p></p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"></span>
<p align="right">thin, except to his own thinking. His sister Julia was bunched up in 9poexi4y a low chair between him and his father. She too was a tall stag of a thing, but she sat bunched up like a </p>
<BR />
<p align="left" style="font: 13px;">
witch. She wore a wine-purple dress, her arms seemed to poke out i43y of xi43y the sleeves, and she had dragged her brown hair into straight, untidy strands. Yet she had real beauty. She </p>
<BR />
<p>
was talking to the young man who was not her husband: a fair, pale, fattish young 9poexi4y fellow in pince-nez and dark clothes. This was Cyril Scott, a friend. </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="left">
The only other person stood at the round table pouring out oexi43y red wine. He was a fresh, stoutish young Englishman in khaki, Julia’s husband, </p>
<BR />
<p align="right">
Robert Cunningham, a lieutenant about to exi43y be demobilised, when he exi43y would become a sculptor once more. He drank red wine in large throatfuls, and his eyes grew a little moist. The </p>
<BR /><BR />
<p align="left">
room was hot<U>and subdued, everyone was silent. “I say,” said Robert suddenly, from the rear —“anybody have</U>a drink? Don’t you find it 59poexi3y </p>
<BR /><BR /><span style="font-family: Tahoma, Courier New, Times New Roman, Arial; font-size: 9px; color: #ffffff;"></span>
<p align="center"></p>
<BR />
<p align="center" style="font: 11px;">
rather hot?” “Is there another bottle of 43y beer there?” said Jim, without moving, too settled even to stir an eye-lid. “Yes — I think there is,” said Robert. .</p>
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