Received: from [38.102.226.102] (port=57172 helo=underchristmas.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1c8x8Q-0008HT-3e for lojban@lojban.org; Mon, 21 Nov 2016 14:32:25 -0800 Date: Mon, 21 Nov 2016 15:53:17 -0700 Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii From: "Santa's Shop" Mime-Version: 1 To: Message-ID: Subject: A Christmas gift for your child they will never forget (package 4192881) Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Spam-Score: -0.4 (/) X-Spam_score: -0.4 X-Spam_score_int: -3 X-Spam_bar: / christmas will rock Make it a magical Christmas for your child

A personal letter from santa makes the perfect gift for any son or daughter

They will receieve:
- Hand-written note with their name on it
- A map from their actual home to Santas workshop
- Gold seal from santa
Each Letter is Customized personally to each child and nothing is more unqiue

Give them the gift they will never forget

















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Lockwood took a while to speak. No deathglows, he said. From the heaviness in his voice, I knew that he too felt malaisthat strange sluggishness, that dead weight in the muscles that comes when a Visitor is near. He sighed faintly. Well, ladies first, Lucy. Pick a door. Not me. I picked a door in that orphanage case, and you know what happened then. That all turned out fine, didnt it Only because I ducked. All right, lets take this one, but youre going in first. Id chosen the nearest, the one on the right. It turned out to lead to a recently remodeled bathroom. Modern tiling gleamed eagerly as the flashlight swept by. There was a big white bathtub, a sink and toilet, and also a distant smell of jasmine soap. Neither of us found anything noticeable here, though the temperature was the same as on the landing. Lockwood tried the next door. It opened into a large back bedroom, which had been converted into possibly the messiest study in London. The flashlight beam showed a heavy wooden desk set beneath a curtained dow. The desk was almost invisible under stacks of papers, and further teetering piles were placed, higgledypiggledy, all across the room. A row of dark bookshelves, chaotically filled, ran down threequarters of the far side wall. There were cupboards, an old leather chair beside the desk, and a faintly masculine smell about the room. I tasted aftershave, whisky, even tobacco. It was bitterly cold now. The dial at my belt showed 36. I stepped carefully around the paper stacks and pulled apart the curtains, disturbing enough dust to set me coughing. Dim white light from the houses across the garden drifted into the room. Lockwood was looking at an ancient frayed rug on the wooden floor, nudging it to and fro with the toe of his shoe. Old pressure marks, he said. Used to be a bed here before Mr. Hope took over. He shrugged, surveyed the room. Maybe hes come back to sort his paperwork. This is it, I said. This is where the Source is. Look at the temperature. And dont you feel heavy, almost numb Lockwood nodded. Plus, this is where Mrs. Hope saw her legendary moving shape. A door slammed, loudly, somewhere below us in the house. Both of us jumped. I think youre right, Lockwood said. This is the place. We should rig up a circle here. Filings or chains