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    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 2, 2011
      start my quiet
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       Men get sick twice as often as women, although women tend to be more concerned about their health.
       In a certain sense the Good is comfortless.
       Women s self-appraisal is lower than that of men. Women tend to criticize themselves, while men are more satisfied with their own performance.
      Honey- I don't know how to start this letter. I love you and I know that you love me too, but I need you to understand how I am feeling. I know that I have been fighting with you a lot lately and I am sorry, its just that I am so mad at both you and myself. I wonder what would of happened if I said that I wanted to keep our baby...I know that you would of been supportive, but I didn't want to put you through that pressure, because I know what you wanted to do
      "Well why don't you DO it then? What do you keep SAYING you will for? Why don't you DO it? It's because you're afraid." O, sir, content you; I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd: Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, And, throwing but shows of service on their lords, Do well thrive by them and when they have lined their coats Do themselves homage: these fellows have some soul; And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago: In following him, I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so, for my peculiar end: For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, 'tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am. Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep mel- ancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the in- significant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged. Jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing Buffalo Gals. Bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in Tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so. He remembered that there was company at the pump. White, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking. And he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, Jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour -- and even then some- body generally had to go after him. Tom said:
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