Did you know?
The Language of the Flowers was a popular method to express feelings where words might be improper, but did you know other means of doing so? Some ladies used their parasols, as well as their fans, gloves, and hankies to flirt with a gentleman (or alternatively, tell them to shove it!). — Bree ( Submit your own)
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Brigit Langley for Fletcher Langley.
The Matchmaking Menace
This boy, then. He wasn't new. Wasn't one of the worst people in the common room, those rotten rich boys - like Mr. Jailkeeper - who could not fathom a world beyond their own farts. Was a good working class lad, so he'd heard. Had a bit of a weird looking face, and a bit of a weird thing for preaching. Still.Aubrey Davis in The Under-Sofa
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Post 3+ times in three or more class threads during the course of a school year. Must all be done with the same character, be they a professor, student, or school portrait or ghost!

Unsaid Musings
January 1st, 1889
I have passed through to many new years to regard them any longer with wonder or joy. I can see only a new cycle beginning - history repeats itself again and again and I have seen it happen and will no doubt see it again.

Nonetheless, I take to paper ever year and make a resolution to myself. History may repeat itself but that does not mean I must as well. I have stared death herself in the eye and refused to blink. I have seen myself in the mirror and failed to recognize the woman that looked back. I think sometimes some of me didn't come back from the other side of the veil.

The year after I nearly died I uprooted myself and began a new life, back in the castle that raised me. The year following I vowed not to be cowed by the children I had been charged with caring for. A year later I promised that I would be kind to them - to care for them means to care about them.

This year I will stop running. I have been running from myself all these years, ever since I kissed Maria in the broom shed by the pitch. I have loved women, truly, but I have never been able to stay with them, or that have not loved me in return. I am old now - I have lived nearly half of what I will ever live and I have no love left to show for it. I no longer care for my reputation, I find, if it means that I am condemned to a lonely life.

I write this but I do not trust myself, really. I may fall in love again but I will run as I always have, though I will try not to. This is who I am. What I am. I will try though. I promise myself that I will try.
wc 320

she's tall, she's strict, and she looks like your lesbian aunt (because she is)

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