Received: from [107.167.15.169] (port=39478 helo=mail.saffiower.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1ckEYX-0003tT-Uc for lojban@lojban.org; Sat, 04 Mar 2017 10:37:30 -0800 DKIM-Signature: v=1; a=rsa-sha1; c=relaxed/relaxed; s=dkim; d=saffiower.com; h=Date:From:To:Subject:MIME-Version:Content-Type:List-Unsubscribe:Message-ID; i=angie.fisher@saffiower.com; bh=eclBLMsPYSHc1DNXzoML/5GYenw=; b=f/BVtmKwjdohwkfbDT9lng4dm56fa2x1hZjP5G3pTyYMmR6vjnIEqqHKtxa5Ib0S+2cSLgXEyL4m IK9BOKaW/LxZxsLd+Pv8WvY11CmJz8hpiTjtOYaNB5G6/gJcuA6g5kxYfrY68MO570dKtU01Tqp/ HudbIBc/0pOf3iDOZvc= DomainKey-Signature: a=rsa-sha1; c=nofws; q=dns; s=dkim; d=saffiower.com; b=hY2uv4ABtUWOsJiR5WYbDCStLFEBLhno8zfePKR5jBKHE3JsrNKvbyuoSLmC62fpYAH4Dg5vqg8U qL53A1jkDlrRkzlN9e1i+tg1vd02dtWr8Xn1raU/HH8YCh0LUVvX8o2qX53ikLc6dMobnve3eRif pOdBkgF665goEHs91go=; Received: by mail.saffiower.com id hnc4ma0001g3 for ; Sat, 4 Mar 2017 13:31:21 -0500 (envelope-from ) Date: Sat, 4 Mar 2017 13:31:21 -0500 From: "Angie Fisher" To: Subject: lojban gwen walks off the voice after blakes outburt- livd 19653873 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary="----=_Part_7_1057192452.1488652269928" X-SMTPAPI: {"category": "20170304-132939-780-17"} List-Unsubscribe: Feedback-ID: 2017030413293978017 Message-ID: <0.0.0.0.1D2951585B7BDA4.27872F7@mail.saffiower.com> X-Spam-Score: 3.6 (+++) X-Spam_score: 3.6 X-Spam_score_int: 36 X-Spam_bar: +++ X-Spam-Report: Spam detection software, running on the system "stodi.digitalkingdom.org", has NOT identified this incoming email as spam. The original message has been attached to this so you can view it or label similar future email. If you have any questions, see the administrator of that system for details. Content preview: in a bubble Gwen Walks Out During a live show, Blake shames her [...] Content analysis details: (3.6 points, 5.0 required) pts rule name description ---- ---------------------- -------------------------------------------------- 0.0 URIBL_BLOCKED ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: The query to URIBL was blocked. See http://wiki.apache.org/spamassassin/DnsBlocklists#dnsbl-block for more information. [URIs: saffiower.com] -0.0 SPF_PASS SPF: sender matches SPF record 0.8 MPART_ALT_DIFF BODY: HTML and text parts are different 0.7 MIME_HTML_ONLY BODY: Message only has text/html MIME parts -1.9 BAYES_00 BODY: Bayes spam probability is 0 to 1% [score: 0.0000] 0.0 HTML_MESSAGE BODY: HTML included in message 0.0 MIME_QP_LONG_LINE RAW: Quoted-printable line longer than 76 chars 1.9 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_E8_51_100 Razor2 gives engine 8 confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.5 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_51_100 Razor2 gives confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.9 RAZOR2_CHECK Listed in Razor2 (http://razor.sf.net/) -0.1 DKIM_VALID Message has at least one valid DKIM or DK signature 0.1 DKIM_SIGNED Message has a DKIM or DK signature, not necessarily valid -0.1 DKIM_VALID_AU Message has a valid DKIM or DK signature from author's domain 0.8 RDNS_NONE Delivered to internal network by a host with no rDNS 0.0 MIME_HTML_ONLY_MULTI Multipart message only has text/html MIME parts ------=_Part_7_1057192452.1488652269928 Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable =20 =20 in a bubble=20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20
Gwen Walks Out
=20


=20



=



What the country singer did to cause this s= tir up, will surprise you and could end their relationship.

She tells Ellen everything he did He did this to get his body back > >

3D""

=20






=20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20
This message-is an-ad and we may receive compensation-for your actions
Submitting your preference on this = site will process your dismissal from o= ur database of partners
18 Hilltop Road Mia= mi Gardens, FL 33056


Discard your = information from our list by = submitting your name now
= Johnny Neiland / 86 Ragan Dr Alexandria La ) 71303-2260





=20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20
of the row was a thin file marked Type Threes. I stared at this. Have you actually encountered a Type Three I asked. Lockwood shrugged. Hardly. I m not even sure they exist. Through an arch off the main office was a side room, completely empty except for a rack of rapiers, a bowl of chalk dust, and two straw-filled Visitor dummies hanging from a ceiling beam by iron chains. One of the dummies wore a bonnet, and the other a top hat. Both were full of holes. Meet Joe and Esmeralda, Lockwood said. They re named after Lady Esmeralda and Floating Joe, two of the famous ghosts from Marissa Fittes Memoirs. Obviously this is the rapier room. We practice here every afternoon. Of course, you ll be proficient with a sword already, if you ve passed your Fourth Grade… He glanced at me. I nodded. Of course. Yes. Absolutely. …but it doesn t hurt to keep in shape, does it I look forward to seeing you in action. And over hereLockwood led me to a padlocked metal door set in the wallis our high-security storeroom. Take a look inside. This storage area was the only separate portion of the basementa small, dowless room filled with shelves and boxes. It was here that all the most essential equipment was keptthe range of silver seals, the iron chains, the flares and canisters ordered direct from the Sunrise Corporation. Right now, it was also where the ghost-jar, with its clamped brownsaid. Nineteenth-century. Supposed to drive away spirits with its raucous sound. Does it work No idea. I ve not tried it yet. Might be worth a go. He pointed to a door alongside. That s the bathroom, if you need it. This one s my room, and that s George s. I d tread with caution there. I once walked in on him doing yoga in the nude. With difficulty, I drove the image from my mind. So this was your house, as a kid Well, it belonged to my parents then. It s mine now. And yours, of course, for as long as you work here. Thanks. Tell me, did your parents I ll show you the kitchen now, Lockwood said. I think George is making dinner. He started down the stairs. What s through there I asked suddenly. There was one door he hadn t mentioned; no different from the others, set close beside his own. He smiled. That s private, if you don t mind. Don t worry, it s not very interesting. Come on! There s still lots to see down here. The ground floorcomprised of sitting room, library, and kitchenwas clearly the heart of the house, and the kitchen was where we would spend the most time. It would be the place we d assemble for a pre-expedition supper; also where we d gather for a late breakfast the morning after. Its appearance reflected this fusion of work and leisure. The surfaces had all the usual domestic cluttercookie tins, fruit bowls, bags of chipsbut also sacks of salt and iron, carefully weighed and ready to go. There were rapiers propped behind the garbage bins and plasm-stained work boots soaking in a bucket. Oddest of all was the kitchen table and its great white tablecloth. This cloth was half-covered with a spreading net of scribbled notes and diagrams, and also drags of several Visitor subtypesWraiths, Solitaries, and Shades. We call this our thinking cloth, Lockwood said. It s not widely known, but I located the bones of the Fenchurch Street Ghoul by sketching out the street plan here, over tea and cheese-on-toast at four o clock in the morning. The cloth lets us jot down memos, theories, follow interesting trains of thought.…It s a very useful tool. It s also good for exchanging rude messages when a case hasn t
=20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20 =20
know what it is or where you got it, but no one should be touching this, not ever. Certainly not for a lousy interview. I leaned forward, took the final two cookies from the plate, and sat back, crunching. It was one of those moments when a great Don t Care wave hits you, and you float off on it, head back, looking at the sky. I was tired out. It was my seventh interview in as many days. Well, I d done all I could, and if Lockwood and this stupid George didn t choose to appreciate itthat really didn t bother me anymore. There was a long silence. Lockwood s hands were clasped between his knees; he was sitting forward like a priest on the toilet, gazing at nothing, a pained, contemplative expression on his face. George s head was still buried in his comic. As far as he was concerned, I might not have been there at all. Well, I said finally. I guess I know where the door is. Tell her about the cookie rule, George said. I looked at him. What Tell her, Lockwood. We ll have to get this straight, or there ll be hell to pay. Lockwood nodded. The rule here is that each member of the agency only takes one cookie at a time in strict rotation. Keeps it fair, keeps it orderly. Nicking two in times of stress just isn t done. One cookie at a time That s right. You mean to say I ve got the job Of course you ve got the job, he said. Thirty-five Portland Row, the building that would function as both home and headquarters for the operatives of Lockwood & Co., was an unexpected sort of place. Appearing squat and squarish from the street, it was actually positioned at the top of a slight slope, so that its rear elevation jutted out high over a jumble of brick walled gardens. It had four floors, which ranged from tiny (the attic) to sprawling (the basement). Technically, the upper three levels were our living space, while the basement contained the office of the company; in fact, such divisions seemed rather blurred. The living areas, for instance, had all sorts of hidden doors that opened onto weapons racks, or swung out to become dartboards, or spare beds, or giant maps of London festooned with colored pins. Meanwhile, the basementitself doubled as a laundry room, which meant you d be practicing Wes half-turns in the rapier room with a row of socks hanging from a clothesline beside your head, or filling canisters from the salt box with the washing machine rumbling loudly in your ear. I liked it all immediately, though it puzzled me as well. It was a large house, filled with expensive, grown-up things, and yet there were no adults present anywhere. Just Anthony Lockwood and his associate, George. And now me. On the first afternoon, Lockwood took me on a tour. He showed me the attic first, low-slung beneath steep eaves. It contained two rooms: a minuscule washroom, in which sink, shower, and toilet practically overlapped; and a pretty attic bedroom, just big enough for a single bed, armoire, and dresser. Opposite the bed, an arched gable dow looked out over Portland Row as far as the ghost-lamp on the corner. This is where I slept when I was little, Lockwood said. It hasn t been occupied for years; the last assistant, God rest him, chose to live out. You can use it, if you like. Thanks, I said. I d be pleased to. I know the bathroom s small, but at least it s your own. There s a bigger one downstairs, but that d mean sharing towels with George. Oh, I think I ll be fine here. We left the attic, trooped down the narrow stairs. The landing below was dark and somber, with a circular golden rug in the center of the floor. Bookshelves in a corner were crammed with a random mix of paperbacks: battered copies of the Fittes Yearbook and Mottram s Psychical Theories, an assortment of cheap novelsmostly pulp thrillers, and detective fictionand serious works on religion and philosophy. As in the hall and living room below, various ethnic artifacts decorated the wallincluding some kind of rattle seemingly made from human bones. Lockwood caught me staring at it. That s a Polynesian ghost-chaser, he
=20 =20 3D""/ ------=_Part_7_1057192452.1488652269928--