By A. E. Coppard Adam and Eve and Pinch Me AND in the whole of his days, vividly at the end of the afternoon——he re- peated it again and again to him- self——the kind country spaces had never absorbed quite so rich a glamour of light, so miraculous a bloom of clarity. He could feel streaming in his own mind, in his bones, the same crystalline bright- ness that lay upon the land. Thoughts and images went floating through him as easily and amiably as fish swim in their pools; and as idly, too, for one of his speculations took up the theme of his family name. There was such an agreeable oddness about it, just as there was about all the luminous sky today, that it touched him as just a little remarkable. What did such a name connote, signify, or symbolize? It was a rann of a name, but it had euphony! Then again, like the fish, his ambulating fancy flashed into other shallows, and he giggled as he paused, peering at the buds in the brake. Turning back towards his house again he could see, beyond its roofs, the spire of the Church tinctured richly as the vane: all round him was a new grandeur upon the grass of the fields, and the square trees and shadows below that seemed to support them in the man- ner of a plinth, more real than themselves, and the dikes and any chance heave of the level fields were underlined, as if for special em- phasis, with long shades of mys- terious blackness. With a little drift of emotions that had at other times assailed him in the wonder and ecstasy of pure light, Jaffa Codling pushed through the slit in the black hedge and stood within his own garden. The gardener was at work. He could hear the voices of the children about the lawn at the other side of the house. He was very happy, and the place was beautiful, a fine white many- windowed house rising from a lawn bowered with plots of mold, turreted with shrubs, and overset with a vast walnut tree. This house had deep clean eaves, a roof of faint-colored slates that, after rain, glowed dully, like onyx or jade, under the red chimneys, and halfway up at one end was a balcony set with black balusters. He went to a French window that stood open and stepped into the dining room. There was no one within, and, on that lonely in- stant, a strange feeling of emptiness dropped upon him. The clock ticked almost as if it had been caught in some indecent act; the air was dim and troubled after that glory out- side. Well, now, he would go up at once to the study and write down for his new book the ideas and images he had accumulated—— beautiful and rich thoughts they were—— during that wonderful afternoon. He went to mount the stairs and he was passed by one of the maids; humming a silly song she brushed past him rudely, but he was an easygoing man——maids were un- teachably tiresome——and reaching the landing he sauntered towards his room. The door stood slightly open and he could hear voices within. He put his hand upon the door . . . it would not open any further. What the devil . . . he pushed——like the bear in the tale—— and he pushed, and he pushed—— was there something against it on the other side? He put his shoulder to it . . . some wedge must be there, and that was extraordinary. Then his whole apprehension was swept up and whirled as by an avalanche ——Mildred, his wife, was in there; he could hear her speaking to a man in fair soft tones and the rich phrase that could be used only by a woman yielding a deep affection for him. Codling kept still. Her words burned on his mind and thrilled him as if spoken to himself. There was a movement in the room, then utter silence. He again thrust savagely at the partly open door, but he could not stir it. The silence within continued. He beat upon the door with his fists, crying: "Mildred, Mildred!" There was no response, but he could hear the rocking arm- chair commence to swing to and fro. Pushing his hand round the edge of the door he tried to thrust his head between the opening. There was not space for this, but he could just peer into the corner of a mirror hung near, and this is what he saw: the chair to one end of its swing, a man sitting in it, and upon one arm of it Mildred, the beloved woman, with her lips upon the man's face, caress- ing him with her hands. Codling made another effort to get into the room——as vain as it was violent. "Do you hear me, Mildred? he shouted. Apparently neither of them heard him; they rocked to and fro while he gazed stupefied. What, in the name of God . . . What was this . . . was she bewitched . . . were there such things after all as magic, devilry! He drew back and held himself quite steadily. The chair stopped swaying, and the room grew awfully still. The sharp ticking of the clock in the hall rose upon the house like the tongue of some perfunctory mocker. Couldn't they hear the clock? . . . Couldn't they hear his heart? He had put his hand upon his heart, for, surely, in that great silence inside there, they could hear its beat, growing so loud now that it seemed almost to stun him! Then in a queer way he found himself re- flecting, observing, analyzing his own actions and intentions. He found some of them to be just a little spurious, counterfeit. He felt it would be easy, so perfectly easy to flash in one blast of anger and annihilate the two. He would do nothing of the kind. There was no occasion for it. People didn't really do that sort of thing, or, at least, not with a genuine passion. There was no need for anger. His curiosity was satisfied, quite satisfied, he was certain, he had not the remotest interest in the man. A welter of unexpected thoughts swept upon his mind as he stood there. As a writer of books he was often stimulated by the emo- tions and impulses of other people, and now his own surprise was begin- ning to intrigue him, leaving him, O, quite unstirred emotionally, but in- teresting him profoundly. He heard the maid come stepping up the stairway again, humming her silly song. He did not want a scene, or to be caught eavesdrop- ping, and so turned quickly to an- other door. It was locked. He sprang to one beyond it; the handle would not turn. "Bah! what's up with 'em?" But the girl was now upon him, carrying a tray of coffee things. "O, Mary!" he exclaimed casually, "I . . ." To his astonishment the girl stepped past him as if she did not hear or see him, tapped open the door of his study, entered, and closed the door behind her. Jaffa Codling then got really angry. "Hell! were the blasted servants in it!" He dashed to the door again and tore at the handle. It would not even turn, and, though he wrenched with fury at it, the room was utterly sealed against him. He went away for a chair with which to smash the effrontery of that door. No, he wasn't angry, either with his wife or this fellow——Gilbert, she had called him——who had a strangely familiar aspect as far as he had been able to take it in; but when one's servants . . . faugh! The door opened and Mary came forth smiling demurely. He was a few yards further along the corridor at that moment. "Mary!" he shouted, "leave the door open!" Mary care- fully closed it and turned her back on him. He sprang after her with bad words bursting from him as she went towards the stairs and flitted lightly down, humming all the way as if in derision. He leaped down- wards after her three steps at a time, buts she trotted with amazing swiftness into the kitchen and slammed the door in his face. Codling stood, but kept his hands carefully away from the door, kept them behind him. "No, no," he whispered cunningly, "there's some- thing fiendish about door handles to- day, I'll go and get a bar, or a butt of timber," and, jumping out into the garden for some such thing, the miracle happened to him. For it was nothing else than a miracle, the un- believable, the impossible, simple and laughable if you will, but have- ing as much validity as any miracle ever can invoke. It was simple and laughable because by all the known physical laws he should have col- lided with his gardener, who happened to pass the window with his wheelbarrow as Codling jumped out on to the path. And it was unbelievable that they should not, and impossible that they did not collide; and it was miraculous, because Codling stood for a brief moment in the garden path and the wheelbarrow of Bond, its contents, and Bond himself passed apparently through the figure of Codling as if he were so much air, as if he were not a living breathing man but just a common ghost. There was no im- pact, just a momentary breathless- ness. Codling stood and looked at the retreating figure going on utterly unaware of him. It is interesting to record that Codling's first feelings were mirthful. He giggled. He was jocular. He ran along in front of the gardener, and let him pass through him once more; then after him again; he scrambled into the man's barrow, and was wheeled about by this incomprehensible thickheaded gardener who was dead to all his master's efforts to engage his attention. Presently he dropped the wheelbarrow and went away, leaving Codling to cogitate upon the occurrence. There was no room for doubt, some essential part of him had become detached from the ob- viously not less vital part. He felt he was essential because he was responding to experience, he was reacting in the normal way to normal stimuli, although he hap- pened for the time being to be in- visible to his fellows and unable to communicate with them.How had it come about——this queer thing? How could he discover what part of him had cut loose, as it were? There was no question f this being death; death wasn't funny, it wasn't a joke; he had still all his human instincts. You didn't get angry with a faithless wife or joke with a fool of a gardener if you were dead, cer- tainly not! He had realized enough of himself to know he was the usual man of instincts, desires, and prohibi- tions, complex and contradictory; his family history for a million or two years would have denoted that, not explicitly——obviously impossible—— but suggestively. He had found him- self doing things he had no de- sire to do, doing things he had a desire not to do, thinking thoughts that had no contiguous meaning, no meanings that could be related to his general experience. At odd times he had been called——aye, and even agreeably surprised——at the im- mense potential evil in himself. But still, this was no mere Jekyll and Hyde affair, that a man and his own ghost should separately inhabit the same world was a horse of quite another color. The other part of him was alive and active somewhere . . . as alive . . . as alive . . . yes, as he was, but dashed if he knew where! What a lark when they got back to each other and compared notes! In his tales he had brooded over so many imagined personalities, fol- lowed in the track of so many psychological enigmas that he had felt at times a stranger to himself. What if, after all, that brooding had given him the faculty of projecting this figment of himself into the world of men. Or was he some un- realized latent element of being without its natural integument, doomed now to drift over the ridge of the world forever. Was it his per- sonality, his spirit? Then how was the dashed thing working? Here was he with the most wonderful happen- ing in human experience, and he couldn't differentiate or disinter things. He was like a new Adam flung into some old Eden. There was Bond tinkering about with some plants a dozen yards in front of him. Suddenly his three children came round from the other side of the house, the youngest boy leading them, carrying in his hand a small sword which was made, not of steel, but of some more brightly shining material; indeed it seemed at one moment to be of gold, and then again of flame, transmuting everything in the neighborhood into the likeness of flame, the hair of the little girl Eve, a part of Adam's tunic; and the fingers of the boy Gabriel as he held the sword were like pale tongues of fire. Gabriel, the youngest boy, went up to the gardener and gave the sword into his hands, saying: "Bond, is this sword any good?" Codling saw the gardener take the weapon and examine it with a careful sort of smile; his great gnarled hands became immediately transparent, the blood could be seen moving diligently about the veins. Codling was so interested in the sight that he did not gather in the garden- er's reply. The little boy was dissat- isfied and repeated his question, "No, but Bond, is this sword any good?" Codling rose, and stood by invisible. The three beautiful children were grouped about the great angular figure of the gardener in his soiled clothes, looking up now in his face, and now at the sword, with anxiety in all their puckered eyes. "Well, Marse Gabriel," Codling could hear his reply. as far as a sword goes, it may be a good un, or it may be a bad un, but, good as it is, it can never be anything but a bad thing." He then gave it back to them; the boy Adam held the haft of it, and the girl Eve rubbed the blade with curious fingers. The younger boy stood looking up at the gardener with unsatisfied gaze. "But, Bond, can't you say if this sword's any good?" Bond turned to his spade and trowels. "Mebbe the shape of it's wrong, Marse Gabriel, though it seems a pretty handy size." Saying this he turned to his brother and sister and took the sword from them: they all followed after the gardener and once more Gabriel made enquiry: "Bond, is this sword any good?" The gardener again took it and made a few passes in the air like a valiant soldier at exercise. Turning then, he lifted a bright curl from the head of Eve and cut it off with a sweep of the weapon. He held it up to look at it critically and then let it fall to the ground. Codling sneaked be- hind him and, picking it up, stood stupidly looking at it. "Mebbe, Marse Gabriel," the gardener was saying, "it ud be better made of steel, but it has a smartish edge on it." He went to pick up the barrow, but Gabriel seized at it with a spasm of anger, and cried out: No, no, Bond, will you say, just yes or no, Bond, is this sword any good?" The gardener stood still, and looked down at the little boy, who repeated his question—— "just yes or no, Bond!" "No, Marse Gabriel!" "Thank you, Bond!" re- plied the child with dignity, "that's all we wanted to know," and calling to his mates to follow him, he ran away to the other side of the house. Codling stared again at the beauti- ful lock of hair in his hand, and felt himself grow so angry that he picked up a strange-looking flowerpot at his feet and hurled it at the retreating gardener. I struck Bond in the mid- dle of the back and, passing clean through him, broke on the wheel of his barrow, but Bond seemed to be quite unaware of this catastrophe. Codling rushed after, and, taking the gardener by the throat, he yelled, "Damn you, will you tell me what all this means?' But Bond proceeded calmly about his work unnoticing, carrying his master about as if he were a clinging vapor, or a scarf hung upon his neck. In a few moments, Codling dropped exhausted to the ground. "What . . . O hell . . . what, what am I to do?" he groaned. "What has happened to me? What shall I do? What can I do?" He looked at the broken flowerpot. "Did I invent that?" He pulled out his watch. "That's a real watch, I hear it ticking, and it's six o'clock." Was he dead or disembodied or mad? What was this infernal lapse of identity? And who the devil, yes, who was it upstairs with Mildred? He jumped to his feet and hurried to the win- dow; it was shut; to the door, it was fastened; he was powerless to open either. Well! well! this was experi- mental psychology wit a vengeance, and he began to chuckle again. He'd have to write to McDougall about it. Then he turned and saw Bond wheeling across the lawn towards him again. "Why is that fellow always shoving that infernal green barrow around?" he asked, and, the fit of fury seizing him again, he rushed towards Bond, but, before he reached him, the three children danced into the garden again, crying, with great excitement, "Bond, O Bond!" The gardener stopped and set down the terrifying barrow; the children crowded about him, and Gabriel held out another shining thing, asking: "Bond, is this box any good?" The gardener took the box and at once his eyes lit up with in- terest and delight. "O, Marse Gabriel, where'd ye get it? Where'd ye get it?" "Bond," said the boy impatiently, is the box any good?" "Any good?" echoed the man. "Why, Marse Gabriel, Marse Adam, Miss Eve, look yere!" Holding it down in front of them, he lifted the lid from the box and a bright-colored bird flashed out and flew round and round above their heads. "O," screamed Gabriel with delight, "it's a kingfisher!" "That's what it is," said Bond, "a kingfisher!" "Where?" asked Adam. "Where?" asked Eve. "There it flies——round the fountain——see it? see it!" "No," said Adam. "No," said Eve. "O, do, do, see it," cried Gabriel, "here it comes, it's coming!" and, holding his hands on high, and standing on his toes, the child cried out as happy as the bird which Codling saw flying above them. "I can't see it," said Adam. "Where is it, Gaby?" asked Eve. "Oh, you stupids," cried the boy. There it goes. There it goes . . . there . . . it's gone!" He stood looking brightly at Bond, who replaced the lid. "What shall we do now?" he ex- claimed eagerly. For reply, the gar- dener gave the box into his hand, and walked off with the barrow. Gabriel took the box over to the fountain. Codling, unseen, went after him, almost as excited as the boy; Eve and her brother followed. They sat upon the stone tank that held the falling water. It was difficult for the child to unfasten the lid; Codling attempted to help him, but he was powerless. Gabriel looked up into his father's face and smiled. Then he stood up and said to the others: "Now, do watch it this time." They all knelt carefully beside the water. He lifted the lid and, behold, a fish like a golden carp, but made wholly of fire, leaped from the box into the fountain. The man saw it dart down into the water, he saw the water bubble up behind it, he heard the hiss that the junction of fire and water produced, and saw a little track of steam follow the bubbles about the tank until the figure of the fish was consumed and disappeared. Gabriel, in ecstasies, turned to his sister with blazing happy eyes, ex- claiming: "There! Evey!" "What was it?" asked Eve, non- chalantly, "I didn't see anything." "More didn't I," said Adam. "Didn't you see that lovely fish?" "No," said Adam. "No," said Eve. "Oh, stupids, cried Gabriel, "it went right past the bottom of the water." "Let's get a fishin' hook," said Adam. "No, no, no," said Gabriel, re- placing the lid of the box. "O no." Jaffa Codling had remained on his knees staring at the water so long that, when he looked around him again, the children had gone away. He got up and went to he door, and that was closed; the windows, fastened. He went moodily to a gar- den bench and sat on it with folded arms. Dusk had begun to fall into the shrubs and trees, the grass to grow dull, the air chill, the sky to muster its gloom. Bond had overturned his barrow, stalled his tools in the lodge, and gone to his home in the village. A curious cat came round the house and surveyed the man who sat chained to his seven-horned dilemma. It grew dark and fearfully silent. Was the world empty now? Some small thing, a snail, perhaps, crept among the dead leaves in the hedge, with a sharp irritating noise. A strange flood of mixed thoughts poured through his mind until at last one idea disentangled itself, and he began thinking with tremendous fixity of little Gabriel. He wondered if he could brood or meditate, or "will" with sufficient power to bring him into the garden again. The child had just vaguely recognized him for a moment at the waterside. He'd try that dodge, telepathy was a mild kind of a trick after so much of the miraculous. If he'd lost his blessed body, at least the part that ate and smoked and talked to Mildred . . . He stopped as his mind stumbled on a strange recognition. . . . What a joke, of course . . . idiot . . . not to have seen that. He stood up in the garden with joy . . . of course, he was upstairs with Mildred, it was him- self, the other bit of him, that Mil- dred had been talking to. What a howling fool he'd been. He found himself concentrating his mind on the purpose of getting the child Gabriel into the garden once more, but it was with a curious mood that he endeavored to establish this relationship. He could not fix his will into any calm intensity of power, or fixity of purpose, or pleasurable mental ecstasy. The utmost force seemed to come with a malicious threatening splenetic "entreaty." That damned snail in the hedge broke the thread of his meditation; a do began to bark sturdily from a distant farm; the faculties of his mind became joggled up like a child's picture puzzle, and he brooded unintelligibly upon such things as skating and steam engines, and Elizabethan drama so lapped about with themes like jealousy and chastity. Really now, Shakespeare's Isabella was the most consummate snob in . . . He looked up quickly to his wife's room and saw Gabriel step from the window to the balcony as if he were fearful of being seen. The boy lifted up his hands and placed the bright box on the rail of the bal- cony. He looked up at the faint stars for a moment or two, and then care- fully released the lid of the box. What came out of it and rose into the air appeared to Codling to be just a piece of floating light, but as it soared above the roof he saw it grow to be a little ancient ship, with three masts all of faint primrose flame color. It cleaved through the air, rolling slightly as a ship through the wave, in widening circles above the house, making a curving ascent until it lost the shape of a vessel and became only a moving light hurrying to some sidereal shrine. Codling glanced at the boy on the balcony, but in that brief instant something had happened, the ship had burst like a rocket and released three colored drops of fire which came falling slowly, leaving beautiful gray furrows of smoke in their track. Gabriel leaned over the rail with outstretched palms, and, catching the green star and the blue one as they drifted down to him, he ran with a rill of laughter back into the house. Codling sprang forward just in time to catch the red star; it lay vividly blasting his own palm for a monstrous second, and then, slipping through, was gone. He stared at the ground, at the balcony, the sky, and then heard an exclamation . . . his wife stood at his side. "Gilbert! How you frighten me!" she cried. "I thought you were in your room; come along in to dinner." She took his arm and they walked up the steps into the dining room together. "Just a moment," said her husband, turning to the door of the room. His hand was upon the handle, which turned easily in his grasp, and he ran upstairs to his own room. He opened the door. The light was on, the fire was burning brightly, a smell of cigarette smoke about, pen and paper upon his desk, the Japanese book knife, the gilt matchbox, everything all right, no one there. He picked up a book from his desk. . . . Monna Vanna. His bookplate was in it——Ex Libris——Gil- bert Cannister. He put it down beside the green dish; two yellow oranges were in the green dish, and two most deliberately green Canadian apples rested by their side. He went to the door and swung it backwards and forwards quite easily. He sat on his desk trying to piece the thing together, glaring at the print and the bookknife and the smart matchbox, until his wife came up behind him exclaiming: "Come along, Gilbert!" "Where are the kids, old man?" he asked her, and, before she replied, he had gone along to the nursery. He saw the two cots, his boy in one, his girl in the other. He turned whimsically to Mildred, saying, There are only two, are there?" Such a question did not call for reply, but he confronted her as if expecting some assuring answer. She was staring at him with her bright beautiful eyes. "Are there?" he repeated. "How strange you should ask me that now!" she said. . . . "If you're a very good man . . . perhaps . . ." "Mildred!" She nodded brightly. He sat down in the rocking chair, but got up again saying to her gently——"We'll call him Gabriel." "But, suppose———" "No, no," he said, stopping her lovely lips, "I know all about him." And he told her a pleasant little tale.
WolfpackBOT - The World's Fastest Crypto Trading Botsubmitted by restpage123 to digitalseo [link] [comments]
There are basically two different ways you can make mazuma from digital currencies. You can purchase a couple of coins currently, hold them for an extensive period and offer them after the esteem has risen significantly or you can get started with exchanging digital forms of money, here once more, you can exchange physically or run with the best crypto exchanging bots. While holding cryptographic money for a more drawn out term has turned out to be fulfilling, it takes a bounty of time and tolerance for you to optically observe the estimation of your speculation increase.If you are somebody, who does not have the persistence to hang tight for so long, at that point digital currency trading provides you with the immaculate chance to make some mazuma. Numerous prosperous digital currency dealers do recommend you purchase low and sell high. In any case, this is easier verbalized than done.
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Variables to Look for When Culling the Best Crypto Trading Bots
You may contend that there is no real way to make sure about the dependability of a specific exchanging bot. Notwithstanding, you aren't the just a single using a bot. Scan for what alternate clients who have used a particular bot need to verbally express about its consistent quality or basically allude to our rundown of the best bitcoin exchanging bots underneath.
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Top 10 Best Crypto Trading Bots in 2019
With the lift in enthusiasm for cloud-predicated advancements, Cryptohopper uses cloud innovation to keep the bot running day in and day out. By running the bot on a cloud, clients will most likely put in exchange requests notwithstanding amid the night. In this manner, no open door is missed.
Another critical reason that prompted the lift in the notoriety of Cryptohopper is its simplicity of usage, particularly for the tyro. The bot has incorporated with an outside exchanging signaller. This assigns anybody can initiate using this bot by running it on autopilot. This is a help to the nascent dealers, who need not stress over setting exchanging signals for their bot. The bot withal gives progressively experienced clients a chance to mess around and set their own exchanging signals. Along these lines, it is satisfying the desiderata of both. Aside from this, the bot is incidentally outfitted with highlights, for example, trailing stops, specialized examination, formats, and backtesting. Formats benefit you to design a nascent setting for your bot quickly, and specialized investigation sanctions you to redo and arrange your own settings.
Like every extraordinary thing, the crypto container comes with a sticker price fastened to it. The cost starts from $19 every month for the fundamental arrangement and goes up to $99 per month if you operate their most extravagant arrangement. When you buy into any of the organizations, you can start using the bot on prominent trades like Binance, Huboi, Kucoin, Bittrex, Coinbase, Poloniex, Kraken, Cryptopia, and Bitfinex. On the off chance that you are slanted to spend the additional buck on an exchanging bot, at that point Cryptohopper is an extraordinary separate.
The new element that dissevers this bot from other bots is its workforce to trail any crypto advertise. This authorizes the bot to close the exchange at the most profitably excellent position, yet the objective addition set by the utilizer had just been come to. This element benefits enormously amid the crypto bull run. Additionally, the bot adventitiously endorses clients to exchange numerous cryptographic forms of money simultaneously. In this manner, it is not passing up any great exchanging opportunity that goes along the way. The bot is set up on the cloud and is available through the site. This betokens the bot runs 24X7. The bot can be designed with Binance and Bittrex at this moment and increasingly legitimate trades, for example, BitFinex, Poloniex, KuCoin, and so forth will be coordinated anon.
The 3Commas comes with a sticker price appended to it. The starter plan will cost you $24, and the most luxurious genius pack would set you back by $82. On the off chance that you operate to give crypto bot exchanging a go, at that point, you could use the 3Commas starter plan and later peregrinate to the more rich schemes.
The bot has 32 diverse pre-arranged exchanging systems which give clients a wide cluster of choices to induce some automated revenue. Among these techniques, the three most well-known ones are the Bollinger band, step addition, and ping pong. Numerous clients have detailed having made a bounty of benefits with the BB procedures. Gunbot isn't in freedom to use and accompanies a one-time level rate running from 0.1BTC to 0.3BTC, contingent upon the highlights that you would savor to optically observe in the bot. Aside from this, the bot supplementally comes as a Lite rendition that has encircled highlights yet can be habituated to test around with the lesser measure of mazuma.
The post-buy support given by the organization is truly surprising. Clients get their issues settled in less than multi-day. The main pickle with regards to this bot is that you ought to in every case reliably outwardly look at the present market state. If the instability of the crypto advertise is high, at that point you ought to most likely turn the bot off to shun any misfortune
The bot comes pre-designed with some exchanging system. You can initiate using the bot on autopilot as anon as you introduce and design it with a trade. In any case, if you would savor to use your very own exchanging system, the bot withal endorses you to design it to your savoring. While the present design is respectable for trying different things with the bot, there are a few other exchanging techniques accessible online that would benefit you make an all the more profitably worthwhile wager. The bot will withal send you a notice at whatever point it executes a specific exchange. This is finished by incorporating it with the Telegram envoy. Consequently, you will dependably ken how well your bot is performing.
The main drawback to the Gekko exchanging bot is that it isn't very utilizer-heartfelt. There are a few aides in the digital world that direct you through the underlying setup process. Be that as it may, this procedure isn't extremely direct and you would presumably hit a barricade at any rate once amid the underlying setup.
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By Katharine Brush Night Club PROMPTLY at quarter of ten P.M. Mrs. Brady descended the steps of the Elevated. She purchased from the newsdealer in the cubbyhole be- neath them a next month's magazine and an tomorrow morning's paper and, with these tucked under one plump arm, she walked. She walked two blocks north on Sixth Avenue; turned and went west. But not far west. Westward half a block only, to the place where the gay green awning marked "Club Français" paints a stripe of shade across the glimmer- ing sidewalk. Under the awning Mrs. Brady halted briefly, to remark to the six-foot doorman that it looked like rain and to await his perform- ance of his professional duty. When the small green door yawned open, she sighed deeply and plodded in. The foyer was a blackness, an air- less velvet blackness like the inside of a jeweler's box. Four drum-shaped lamps of golden silk suspended from the ceiling gave it light (a very little) and formed the jewels: gold signets, those, or cuff links for a giant. At the far end of the foyer there were black stair, faintly dusty, rippling upward toward an amber radiance. Mrs. Brady approached and ponderously mounted the stairs, clinging with one fist to the mangy velvet rope that railed their edge. From the top, Miss Lena Levin observed the ascent. Miss Levin was the checkroom girl. She had dark-at- the roots blonde hair and slender hips upon which, in moments of leisure, she wore her hands, like buckles of ivory loosely attached. This was a moment of leisure. Miss Levin waited behind her counter. Row upon row of hooks, empty as yet, and seeming to beckon——wee curved fingers of iron——waited be- hind her. "Late," said Miss Levin, "again." "Go wan!" said Mrs. Brady. "It's only ten to ten. Whew! Them stairs!" She leaned heavily, sideways, against Miss Levin's counter, and, applying one palm to the region of her heart, appeared at once to listen and to count. "Feel!" she cried then in a pleased voice. Miss Levin obediently felt. "Them stairs," continued Mrs. Brady darkly, "with my bad heart, will be the death of me. Whew! Well, dearie? What's the news?" "You got a paper," Miss Levin languidly reminded her. "Yeah!" agreed Mrs. Brady with sudden vehemence. "I got a paper!" She slapped it upon the counter. "An' a lot of time I'll get to read my paper, won't I now? On a Saturday night!" She moaned. "Other nights is bad enough, dear knows——but Saturday nights! How I dread 'em! Every Saturday night I say to my daughter, I say, 'Geraldine, I can't,' I say, 'I can't go through it again, an' that's all there is to it,' I say. 'I'll quit!' I say. An' I will, too!" added Mrs. Brady firmly, if indefinitely. Miss Levin, in defense of Saturday nights, mumbled some vague some- thing about tips. "Tips!" Mrs. Brady hissed it. She almost spat it. Plainly money was nothing, nothing at all, to this lady. "I just wish," said Mrs. Brady, and glared at Miss Levin, "I just wish you had to spend one Saturday night, just one in that dressing room! Bein' pushed an' stepped on and near knocked down by that gang of hussies, an' them orderin' an' bossin' you round like you was black, an' usin' your things an' then sayin' they're sorry, they got no change, they'll be back. Yeah! They never come back!" "There's Mr. Costello," whispered Miss Levin through lips that, like a ventriloquist's, scarcely stirred. "An' as I was sayin'," Mrs. Brady said at once brightly, "I got to leave you. Ten to ten, time I was on the job." She smirked at Miss Levin, nodded, and right-about-faced. There, indeed, Mr. Costello was. Mr. Billy Costello, manager, proprietor, monarch of all he surveyed. From the doorway of the big room where the little tables herded in a ring around the waxen floor, he surveyed Mrs. Brady, and in such a way that Mrs. Brady, momentarily forgetting her bad heart, walked fast, scurried faster, almost ran. The door of her domain was set politely in an alcove, beyond silken curtains looped up at the sides. Mrs. Brady reached it breathless, shoul- dered it open, and groped for the electric switch. Lights sprang up, a bright white blaze, intolerable for an instant to the eyes, like the sun on snow. Blinking, Mrs. Brady shut the door. The room was a spotless, white- tiled place, half beauty shop, half dressing room. Along one wall stood washstands, sturdy triplets in a row, balloons afloat above them. Against the opposite wall there was a couch. A third wall backed an elongated glass-topped dressing-table; and over the dressing-table and over the wash- stands long rectangular sheets of mirror reflected lights, doors, glossy tiles, lights multiplied. . . . Mrs. Brady moved across this glit- ter like a think dark cloud in a hurry. At the dressing table she came to a halt, and upon it she laid her news- paper, her magazine, and her purse ——a black purse worn gray with much clutching. She divested herself of a rusty black coat and a hat of the mushroom persuasion, and hung both up in a corner cupboard which she opened by means of one of a quite preposterous bunch of keys. From a nook in the cupboard she took down a lace-edged handkerchief with long streamers. She untied the streamers and tied them again around her chunky black alpaca waist. The handkerchief became an apron's baby cousin. Mrs. Brady relocked the cupboard door, fumbled her key ring over, and unlocked a capacious drawer of the dressing table. She spread a fresh towel on the plate-glass top, in the geometrical center, and upon the towel she arranged with care a pro- cession of things fished from the drawer. Things for the hair. Things for the complexion. Tings for the eyes, the lashes, the brows, the lips, and the fingernails. Things in boxes and things in jars and things in tubes and tins. Also an ash tray, matches pins, a tiny sewing kit, a pair of scissors. Last of all, a hand-printed sign, a nudging sort of sign: NOTICE! THESE ARTICLES, PLACED HERE FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE, ARE THE PROPERTY OF THE MAID. And directly beneath the sign, prop- ping it up against the looking glass, a china saucer, in which Mrs. Brady now slyly laid decoy money: two quarters and two dimes, in four- leaf-clover formation. Another drawer of the dressing table yielded a bottle of Bromo- seltzer, a bottle of aromatic spirits of ammonia, a tin of sodium bicar- bonate, and a teaspoon. These were lined up on a shelf above the couch. Mrs. Brady was ready for anything. And (from the grim, thin pucker of her mouth) expecting it. Music came to her ears. Rather, the beat of music, muffled, rhythmic, remote. Umpa-um, umpa-um, umpa- um-umm——Mr. "Fiddle" Baer and his band, hard at work on the first fox- trot of the night. It was teasing, foot- tapping music; but the large solemn feet of Mrs. Brady were still. She sat on the couch and opened her newspaper; and for some moments she read uninterruptedly, with spe- cial attention to the murders, the divorces, the breaches of promise, the funnies. Then the door swung inward, ad- mitting a blast of Mt. Fiddle Baer's best, a whiff of perfume, and a girl. Mrs. Brady put her paper away. The girl was petite and darkly beautiful; wrapped in fur and mounted on tall jeweled heels. She entered humming the ragtime song the orchestra was playing, and while she stood near the dressing table, stripping off her gloves, she con- tinued to hum it softly to her self: Oh, I know my baby loves me, I can tell my baby loves me. Here the dark girl got the left glove off, and Mrs. Brady glimpsed a platinum wedding ring. 'Cause there ain't no maybe In my baby's Eyes. The right glove came off. The dark little girl sat down in one of the chairs that faced the dressing table. She doffed her wrap, casting it care- lessly over the chair back. It had a cloth-of--gold lining, and the name of a Paris house was embroidered in curlicues on the label. Mrs. Brady hovered solicitously near. The dark little girl, still humming looked over the articles. "placed here for your convenience," and picked up the scissors. Having cut off a very small hangnail with the air of one performing a perilous major oper- ation, she seized and used the mani- cure buffer, and after that the eye- brow pencil. Mrs. Brady's mind, hopefully calculating the tip, jumped and jumped again like a taxi meter. Oh, I know my baby loves me——— The dark little girl applied powder and lipstick belonging to herself. She examined the result searchingly in the mirror and sat back, satisfied. She cast some silver Klink! Klink! into Mrs. Brady's saucer, and half rose. Then remembering something, she settled down again. The ensuing thirty seconds were spent by her in pulling off her platinum wedding ring, tying it in a corner of a lace handkerchief, and tucking the handkerchief down the bodice of her tight white velvet gown. "There!" she said. She swooped up her wrap and trotted toward the door, jeweled heels merrily twinkling. 'Cause there ain't no maybe——— The door fell shut. Almost instantly it opened again, and another girl came in. A blonde, this. She was very pretty in a round-eyed, doll-like way; but Mrs. Brady, re- garding her, mentally grabbed the spirits of ammonia bottle. For she looked terribly ill. The round eyes were dull, the pretty silly little face was drawn. The thin hands, picking at the fastenings of a specious beaded bag, trembled and twitched. Mrs. Brady cleared her throat. "Can I do something for you, miss?" Evidently the blonde girl had be- lieved herself alone in the dressing room. She started violently and glanced up, panic in her eyes. Panic, and something else. Something very like murderous hate——but for an in- stant only, so that Mrs. Brady, whose perceptions were never quick, missed it altogether. "A glass of water?" suggested Mrs. Brady. "No," said the girl, "no." She had one hand in the beaded bag now. Mrs. Brady could see it moving, causing the bag to squirm like a live thing and the fringe to shiver. "Yes!" she cried abruptly. "A glass of water ——please——you get it for me." She dropped on to the couch. Mrs. Brady scurried to the water cooler in the corner, pressed the spigot with a determined thumb. Water trickled out thinly. Mrs. Brady pressed harder, and scowled, and thought, "Something's wrong with this thing. I mustn't forget, next time I see Mr. Costello———" When again she faced her patient, the patient was sitting erect. She was thrusting her clenched hand back into the beaded bag again. She took only a sip of the water, but it seemed to help her quite miraculously. Almost at once color came to her cheeks, life to her eyes. She grew young again——as young as she was. She smiled up at Mrs. Brady. "Well!" she exclaimed. "What do you know about that!" She shook her honey-colored head. "I can't imagine what came over me." "Are you better now?" inquired Mrs. Brady. Yes. Oh, yes, I'm better now. You see," said the blonde girl confiden- tially, "we were at the theater, my boy friend and I, and it was hot and stuffy——I guess that must have been the trouble." She paused, and the ghost of her recent distress crossed her face. God! I thought that last act never would end!" she said. While she attended to her hair and complexion, she chattered gaily to Mrs. Brady, chattering on with scarcely a stop for breath, and laughed much. She said, among other things, that she and her "boy friend" had not known one another very long, but that she was "ga-ga" about him. "He is about me, too," she con- fessed. "He thinks I'm grand." She fell silent then, and in the looking glass her eyes were shad- owed, haunted. But Mrs. Brady, from where she stood, could not see the looking glass; and half a minute later the blonde girl laughed and began again. When she went out she seemed to dance out on winged feet; and Mrs. Brady, sighing, thought it must be nice to be young . . . and happy like that. The next arrivals were two. A tall, extremely smart young woman in black chiffon entered first, and held the door open for her companion; and the instant the door was shut, she said, as though it had been on the tip of her tongue for hours, "Amy, what under the sun hap- pened?" Amy, who was brown-eyed, brown-bobbed-haired, and patently annoyed about something, crossed to the dressing table an flopped into a chair before she made a reply. "Nothing," she said wearily then. "That's nonsense!" snorted the other. "Tell me. Was it something she said? She's a tactless ass, of course. Always was." "No, not anything she said. It was———" Amy bit her lip. "All right! I'll tell you. Before we left your apartment I just happened to notice that Tom had disappeared. So I went to look for him——I wanted to ask him if he'd remembered to tell the maid where we were going—— Skippy's subject to croup, you know, and we always leave word. Well, so I went into the kitchen, thinking Tom might be there mixing cock- tails——and there he was——and there she was!" The full red mouth of the other young woman pursed itself slightly. Her arched brows lifted. "Well?" Her matter-of-factness appeared to infuriate Amy. "He was kissing her!" she flung out. "Well?" said the other again. She chuckled softly and patted Amy's shoulder, as if it were the shoulder of a child. "You're surely not going to let that spoil your whole evening? Any dear! Kissing may once have been serious and significant——but it isn't nowadays. Nowadays, it's like shaking hands. It means nothing." But Amy was not consoled. "I hate her!" she cried desperately. "Redheaded thing! Calling me 'darling' and 'honey,' and s-sending me handkerchiefs for C-Christmas—— and then sneaking off behind closed doors and k-kissing my h-h-hus- band———" At this point Amy broke down, but she recovered herself sufficiently to add with venom, "I'd like to slap her!" "Oh, oh, oh," smiled the tall young woman, "I wouldn't do that!" Amy wiped her eyes with what might well have been one of the Christmas handkerchiefs, and con- fronted her friend. "Well, what would you do, Vera? If you were I?" "I'd forget it," said Vera, "and have a good time. I'd kiss somebody myself. You've no idea how much better you'd feel!" I don't do———" Amy began in- dignantly; but as the door behind her opened a third young woman ——redheaded, ear-ringed, exquisite—— lilted in, she changed her tone. "Oh, hello!" she called sweetly, beaming at the newcomer via the mirror. "We were wondering what had become of you!" The redheaded girl, smiling easily back, dropped her cigarette on the floor and crushed it out wit a silver shod toe. "Tom and I were talking to Fiddle Baer," she explained. "He's going to play 'Clap Yo' Hands' next, because it's my favorite. Lend me a comb, will you?" "There's a comb there," said Vera, indicating Mrs. Brady's business comb. "But imagine using it!" murmured the redheaded girl. "Amy, darling, haven't you one?" Amy produced a tiny comb from her rhinestone purse. "Don't forget to bring it when you come," she said, and stood up. "I'm going on out, I want to tell Tom something." She went. The redheaded young woman and the tall black-chiffon one were alone, except for Mrs. Brady. The red- headed one beaded her incredible lashes. The tall one, the one called Vera, sat watching her." And Sylvia looked. Anybody, addressed in that tone, would have. "There is one thing," Vera went on quietly, holding the other's eyes "that I want understood. And that is, 'Hands off!' Do you hear me?" "I know what you mean." "You know what I mean!" The redheaded girl shrugged her shoulders. "Amy told you she saw us, I suppose." Precisely. And," went on Vera, gathering up her possessions and rising, "as I said before, you're to keep away." Her eyes blazed sudden white-hot rage. "Because, as you very well know, he belongs to me," she said, and departed, slamming the door. Between eleven o'clock and one Mrs. Brady was very busy indeed. Never for more than a moment during those two hours was the dressing room empty. Often it was jammed, full to overflowing with curled cropped heads, with ivory arms and shoulders, with silk and lace and chiffon, with legs. The door flapped in and back, in the back. The mirrors caught and held——and lost—— a hundred different faces. Powder veiled the dressing table with a thin white dust; cigarette stubs, scarlet at the tip, choked the ash receiver. Dimes and quarter clattered into Mrs. Brady's saucer——and were transferred to Mrs. Brady's purse. The original seventy cents remained. That much, and no more, would Mrs. Brady gamble on the integrity of womankind. She earned her money. She threaded needles and took stitches. She powdered the backs of necks. She supplied towels for soapy, drip- ping hands. She removed a speck from a teary blue eye and pounded the heel on a slipper. She curled the struggling ends of a black bob and a gray bob, pinned a velvet flower on a lithe round waist, mixed three doses of bicarbonate of soda, took charge of a shed pink-satin girdle, collected, on hands and knees, sev- eral dozen fake pearls that had wept from a broken string. She served chorus girls and school- girls, gay young matrons and gayer young mistresses, a lady who had divorced four husbands, and a lady who had poisoned one, the secret (more or less) sweetheart of a Most Distinguished Name, and the Brains of a bootleg gang. . . . She saw things. She saw a yellow check, with the ink hardly dry. She saw four tiny bruises, such as fingers might make, on an arm. She saw a girl strike another girl, not playfully. She saw a bundle of letter some man wished he had not written, safe and deep in a brocaded handbag. About midnight the door flew open and at once was pushed shut, and a gray-eyed, lovely child stood backed against it, her palms flattened on the panels at her sides, the dra- peries of her white chiffon gown settling lightly to rest around her. There were already five damsels of varying ages in the dressing room. The latest arrival marked their pres- ence with a flick of her eyes and, standing just where she was, she called peremptorily, "Maid!" Mrs. Brady, standing just where she was, said, "Yes, miss?" "Please come here," said the girl. Mrs. Brady, as slowly as she dared, did so. The girl lowered her voice to a tense half whisper. "Listen! Is there any way I can get out of here except through this door I came in?" Mrs. Brady stared at her stupidly. "Any window?" persisted the girl. "Or anything?" Here they were interrupted by the exodus of two of the damsels-of- varying-ages, Mrs. Brady opening the door for them——and in so doing caught a glimpse of the man who waited in the hall outside, a debonair, old-young man with a girl's furry wrap hung over his arm, and his hat in his hand. The door clicked. The gray-eyed girl moved out from the wall, against which she had flattened herself——for all the world like one eluding pursuit in a cinema. "What about the window?" she demanded, pointing. "That's all the farther it opens," said Mrs. Brady. "Oh! And it's the only one——isn't it?" "It is." "Damn," said the girl. "Then there's no way out?" "No way but the door," said Mrs. Brady testily. The girl looked at the door. She seemed to look through the door, and to despise and to fear what she saw. Then she looked at Mrs. Brady. "Well," she said, "then I s'pose the only thing for me to do is to stay in here." She stayed. Minutes ticked by. Jazz crooned distantly, stopped, struck up again. Other girls came and went. Still the gray-eyed girl sat on the couch, with her back to the wall and her shapely legs crossed smoking cigarettes, one from the stub of another. After a long while she said, "Maid!" "Yes, miss?" "Peek out that door, will you, and see if there's anyone standing there." Mrs. Brady peeked, and reported that there was. There was a gentle- man with a little bit of a black mustache standing there. The same gentleman, in fact, who was stand- ing there "just after you came in." "Oh, Lord," sighed the gray-eyed girl. "Well . . . I can't stay here all night, that's one sure thing." She slid off the couch, and went listlessly to the dressing table. There she occupied herself for a minute or two. Suddenly, without a word, she darted out. Thirty seconds later Mrs. Brady was elated to find two crumpled one- dollar bills lying in the saucer. Her joy, however, died a premature death. For she made an almost si- multaneous second discovery. A a sad- dening one. Above all, a puzzling one. "Now what for," marveled Mrs. Brady, "did she want to walk off with them scissors?" This at twelve-twenty-five. At twelve-thirty a quartet of ex- cited young things burst in, babbling madly. All of them had their evening wraps about them; all talked at once. One of them, a Dresden-china girl with a heart-shaped face, was the center of attraction. Around her the rest fluttered like monstrous butter- flies; to her they addressed their shrill exclamatory cries. "Babe," they called her. Mrs. Brady heard snatches: "Not in this state unless . . ." "Well, you can in Maryland, Jimmy says." "Oh, there must be some place nearer than . . ." "Isn't this marvelous?" "When did it happen, Babe? When did you decide?" "Just now," the girl with the heart- shaped face sang softly, "when we were dancing." The babble resumed, "But listen, Babe, what'll your mother and father . . . ?" "Oh, never mind, let's hurry." "Shall we be warm enough with just these thin wraps, do you think? Babe, will you be warm enough? Sure?" Powder flew and little pocket combs marched through bright mar- cels. Flushed cheeks were painted pinker still. "My pearls," said Babe, "are old. And my dress and my slippers are new. Now, let's see——what can I borrow?" A lace handkerchief, a diamond bar pin, a pair of earrings were proffered. She chose the bar pin, and its owner unpinned it proudly, gladly. "I've got blue garters!" exclaimed a shrill little girl in a silver dress. "Give me one, then," directed Babe. "I'll trade with you. . . . There! That fixes that." More babbling, "Hurry! Hurry up!" . . . "Listen are you sure we'll be warm enough? Because we can stop at my house, there's nobody home." "Give me that puff, Babe, I'll powder your back." "And just to think a week ago you;d never even met each other!" "Oh, hurry up, let's get started!" "I'm ready." "So'm I." "Ready, Babe? You look ador- able." "Come on, everybody." They were gone again, and then dressing room seemed twice as still and vacant as before. A minute of grace, during which Mrs. Brady wiped the spilled pow- der away with a damp gray rag. Then the door jumped open again. Two evening gowns appeared and made for the dressing table in a bee line. Slim tubular gowns they were, one green, one palest yellow. Yel- low hair went wit the green gown, brown hair with the yellow. The green-gowned, yellow-haired girl wore gardenias on her left shoulder, four of them, and a flashing bracelet on each fragile wrist. The other girl looked less prosperous; still, you would rather have looked at her. Both ignored Mrs. Brady's cos- metic display as utterly as they ignored Mrs. Brady, producing full field equipment of their own. "Well," said the girl with gar- denias, rouging energetically, "how do you like him?" "Oh-h——all right." "Meaning, 'Not any,' hmm? I sus- pected as much!" The girl with gardenians turned in her chair and scanned her companion's profile with disapproval. "See here, Marilee," she drawled, "are you going to be a damn fool all your life?" "He's fat," said Marilee dreamily. "Fat, and——greasy, sort of. I mean greasy in his mind. Don't you know what I mean?" "I know one thing," declared the other. "I know Who He Is! And if I were you, that's all I'd need to know. Under the circumstances." The last three words, stressed meaningly, affected the girl called Marilee curiously. She grew grave. Her lips and lashes drooped. For some seconds she sat frowning a little, breaking a black-sheathed lip- stick in two and fitting it together again. "She's worse," she said finally, low. "Worse?" Marilee nodded. "Well," said the girl with gar- denias, "there you are. It's the climate. She'll never be anything but worse, if she doesn't get away. Out West. Arizona or somewhere." "I know," murmured Marilee. The other girl opened a tin of eye shadow. "Of course," she said dryly, "suit yourself. She's not my sister." Marilee said nothing. Quiet she sat, breaking the lipstick, mending it, breaking it. "Oh, well," she breathed finally, wearily, and straightened up. She propped her elbows on the plate- glass dressing-table top and leaned toward the mirror, and with the lip- stick she began to make her coral- pink mouth very red and gay and reckless and alluring. Nightly at one o'clock Vane and Moreno dance for the Club Français. They dance a tango, they dance a waltz; then, by way of encore, they do a Black Bottom, and a trick of their own called the Wheel. They dance for twenty, thirty minutes. And while they dance you do not leave your table——for this is what you came to see. Vane and Moreno. The new New York thrill. The sole justifica- tion for the five-dollar couvert ex- torted by Billy Costello. From one until half-past, then, was Mrs. Brady's recess. She had been looking forward t it all the eve- ning long. When it began——when the opening chords of the tango music sounded stirringly from the room outside——Mrs. Brady brightened. With a right good will she sped the parting guests. Alone, she unlocked her cupboard and took out her magazine——the magazine she had bought three hours before. Heaving a great breath of relief and satisfaction, she plumped herself on the couch and fingered the pages. Immediately she was absorbed, her eyes drinking up the printed lines, her lips moving soundlessly. The magazine was Mrs. Brady's favorite. Its stories were true stories, taken from life (so the editor said); and to Mrs. Brady they were live, vivid threads in the dull, drab pat- tern of her night.
I have already laid out a decent portion of my argument for why Yahweh is the Beast from the Sea, Moses is the Beast from the Earth, the False Prophet, and Trump is the image of the Beast. Now it's time to talk about the Mark of the Beast.submitted by Oblique9043 to TheGreatDeception [link] [comments]
First I want to make it clear that my belief is that Yahweh is NOT the Father that Jesus speaks about and I will make another post showing all the evidence of that with the Bible itself.
Revelation 13So what would be a symbol or mark of someone or something that would have to do with buying and selling? Well what does the New Testament say about money?
Matthew 6Jesus says that building up wealth on Earth is pointless and we should build up wealth in Heaven, which is in our hearts.
Also makes it pretty clear that a person can either love God or mammon. Well what is mammon?
Mammon /ˈmæmən/ in the New Testament of the Bible is commonly thought to mean money, material wealth, or any entity that promises wealth, and is associated with the greedy pursuit of gain. "You cannot serve both God and mammon."So Mammon is basically the worship of money, wealth or material things.
1 Timothy 6The love of money is the root of all evil. Seems pretty clear here.
Matthew 19Jesus says it's basically impossible to be rich and get into Heaven. He constantly encourages his followers to sell everything they have and to follow him. Jesus describes himself like this:
John 14Follow the truth and the way that he lived, and you get into Heaven. Did Jesus care about money? No. Did he care about having to pay too much tax? No.
Matthew 22Clearly Jesus is saying that money and rulers are separate from God. Money is Caesar's, not God's. So we shouldn't be that concerned with it. That is why the Mark of the Beast will have to do with buying and selling. So what is the Mark of the Beast?
Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is 666.Who is the most associated with wisdom in the Bible and the number 666? King Solomon.
1 Kings 10:14 The weight of the gold that Solomon received yearly was 666 talents.The Seal of Solomon, The Star of David, that is the Mark of the Beast.
6 points, 6 triangles and 6 sides to the hexagon. Two larger triangles put together. "So above as below". The Jewish Kabbalah concept of God.
Now why would this be the Mark of the Beast? Because this is the work of all of those who do true evil against humanity. The "Mysteries" behind the secret societies. Kabbalah is the root of it all and King Solomon was a master at it. He also loved gold and material things.
Yahweh loves gold. He has the Israelites pay a monetary amount to pay for their lives in the desert, the same amount no matter how poor or rich, or else he says he will plague them.
Exodus 30Compare this to what Jesus said about giving money.
Mark 12Yahweh has the priests dress up in fine linen and purple, blue, scarlet and gold with a bunch of precious stones on it. This is only one example of what he directs them to wear.
:ExodusThis sounds familiar
Revelation 17This is also how the Freemason's dress and the Vatican too. They act like they're enemies but they're not. They're ALL the on the same team. The Jews killed Jesus and killed a bunch of prophets that they get admonished for in the Bible itself.
The Pope donned in gold looking like a creepy lizard
Purple and Scarlet
Scottish Rite Freemason with 2 headed Phoenix and the Kabbalah Tree of Life on his forehead.
Moses sacrificed animals and wiped their blood on the priests and on the horns of the altar.
LeviticusThese Israelites made animal sacrifices, wiped the blood on priests and on the altar itself then prayed at the altar. The altar was made of gold. They worship gold. Their true god is mammon.
If someone told you they heard a voice in the fire that told them to sacrifice animals on an altar of gold and to wipe the blood on everything you'd look at them like they were in an evil satanic cult.
Solomon got 666 talents of gold each year. This is the ONLY other time that number occurs in the Bible.
1 Kings 10:14 The weight of the gold that Solomon received yearly was 666 talents.The Bible says anyone who denies Jesus is of the Antichrist spirit. What group of people deny Jesus the most and even killed him? Jews = 666 = Antichrist .
Yahweh is the Beast from the sea. Moses is the Beast from the Earth with 2 horns like a lamb that speaks like a dragon. Trump is the image of the Beast who kills everyone who doesn't worship him or take the Mark of the Beast. He's also King Solomon/Golden Horus Osiris/The Little Horn/The King of Babylon.
The story of Exodus is told in a way to hide who Moses really is. Moses and the Levites brought the knowledge of the Ancient Egyptians out of Egypt with them into Israel. The knowledge we know as Kabbalah. The Levites started the first banking institutions in Babylon and it all started from there. They were not the real Jews and even Jesus alludes to this several times.
1776: The year America and the Illuminati was founded.https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illuminati
The Illuminati (plural of Latin illuminatus, "enlightened") is a name given to several groups, both real and fictitious. Historically, the name usually refers to the Bavarian Illuminati, an Enlightenment-era secret society founded on 1 May 1776. The society's goals were to oppose superstition, obscurantism, religious influence over public life, and abuses of state power. "The order of the day," they wrote in their general statutes, "is to put an end to the machinations of the purveyors of injustice, to control them without dominating them." The Illuminati—along with Freemasonry and other secret societies—were outlawed through edict by the Bavarian ruler Charles Theodore with the encouragement of the Catholic Church, in 1784, 1785, 1787, and 1790. In the several years following, the group was vilified by conservative and religious critics who claimed that they continued underground and were responsible for the French Revolution.Our country is full of Masonic symbolism but especially on our money.
Dragons are reptilian, terrible, live forever, breathe fire and hoard gold. The Red Dragon = Satan.
Our money use to be on the gold standard and we mined a lot of it.
The Anunnaki created us to mine gold for them (or at least that's what they have tried to make us believe). Who owns all the gold (ie. money) now? "The love of money is the root of all evil."
Who do we know of that is obsessed with gold, wealth, status and other worldly material things?
He even shits gold
Into a gold toilet
And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads.https://preview.redd.it/3mrw3tfuwwf11.jpg?width=694&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=9aae4b0d6e4d956c1ce8dbcc772f041093cba773
Ash Wednesday. What is ash? Carbon, the basic fundamental element of the material world. Carbon12 has 6 protons, 6 neutrons and 6 electrons. 666.
Acts 7As you can see from my other posts, I think the end goal of all of this is the Transhumanism agenda. Cryptocurrency will soon become the one world global currency and eventually your "wallet" will be stored in your DNA. You won't be able to "buy or sell" without this DNA "mark"er. Here are just a few articles where you can read about this.
Commentary: How Blockchain Could Replace Social Security Numbers
Similarities between Blockchain and DNA.
A Piece of DNA Contained the Key to 1 Bitcoin and This Guy Cracked the Code
The first successful transfer of DNA Sequence over the Ethereum Blockchain
A private DNA wallet – made possible via Blockchain
And then there's this:
BitСOEN – First Community Open Exchange Network
Have you heard about the cryptocurrency for communities before? Sure you haven’t. Because we’re the first, the one and the only in the world.https://www.jpost.com/Diaspora/BitCoen-to-become-first-electronic-currency-specifically-for-Jews-501885
BITCOEN TO BECOME FIRST ELECTRONIC CURRENCY SPECIFICALLY FOR JEWS
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