Fw: spring special

Date: Sat, 28 Aug 2004 23:50:53 -1000
From: "lucio gentili" <melitadurgan@blahdeblah.com>
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To: "issac blodgett" <ip-dlib@chebucto.ns.ca>
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Original-Recipient: rfc822;"| (cd /csuite/info/lists/ccn-mem; /csuite/lib/arch2html)"

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<br>`You needn't have touched me!' he answered, foll~owi-ng her eye and
snatching away his hand. `I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like to be
dirty, and I will be dirty.'  Mr Heathcliff having overheard the
conversation, as well as I, smiled when he saw him go; but immediately
afterwards cast a look of singular aversion on the flippant pair, who
remained chattering in the doorway: the boy finding animation enough while
discussing Hareton's faults and deficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his
goings-on; and the girl relishing his pert and spiteful sayings, without
considering the ill nature they evinced: but I began to dislike, mo're than
to compassionate Linton, and to excuse his father, in some measure, for
holding him cheap. <br>
<br><BR>      <BR>
-----Original Message-----<br>
From: Yael Owens [mailto:o@vhfake.com]<br>
To: claude holcombe; donovan libby; tristan yazzie <br>
Sent: Wednesday, December, 2004 10:15 PM<br>
Subject: spring special<br>
<br>   <BR>           <BR>
'I will send her, then, as soon as possible, Mr. Brocklehurst; for, I
assure you, I feel anxious to be relieved of a responsibility that was
becoming too irksome.' He sat dow`n. I recalled his singular conduct of
yesterday, and really I began to fear his wits were touched. If he were
insane, however, his was a very cool and collected insanity: I had never
se_en that handsome-featured face of his look mo_re like chiselled marble
than it did just now, as he put aside his snow-wet hair from his forehead
and let the firelight shine fr.ee on his pale brow and cheek as pale, where
it grieved me to discover the hollow trace of care or sorrow now so plainly
graved. I waited, expecting he would say someth'ing I could at least
comprehend; but his hand was now at his chin, his finger on his lip: he was
thinking. It struck me that his hand looked wasted like his face. A perhaps
uncalled-for gush of pity came over my heart: I was moved to say- <br>
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