Vous avez cherché: was it busy this evening (Tagalog - Anglais)

how was it
how was it

how was it?
have you ever been in love ?

how was it then
how was it then

so what,was it?
so what,was it

you busy this weekend?
u busy this weekend?

how was it at work tonight
was it busy this evening

from what source was it taken
taken tagalog

was it easy or difficult? why?
was it easy or difficult ? why?

was it easy to translate your idea into drawing
it was easy to translate your idea into drawing

was. it easy to translate you idea into drawing
was. it easy to translate you idea into drawing

i thought you love me i thought that was it
i thought you love me i thought that was it

are you busy this week and i will send it to you?
are you busy this week and i will send it to you

was it easy for you to differentiate rights from responsibilities?
was it easy for you to differentiate rights responsibilities

pareho naming busy this week posible sa ito darating na lunes
we both busy this week it possible on this coming monday

did you learne anything about this movie if you did what was it?
did you learne anything this movie if you did what was it

did you lost it somewhere? try to remember where did you saw that?was it in a wallet or something?
did you lose it somewhere? try to remember where did you see that? was it in a wallet or something?

by the railway side by: alice meynell my train drew near to the via reggio platform on a day between two of the harvests of a hot september; the sea was burning blue, and there were a sombreness and a gravity in the very excesses of the sun as his fires brooded deeply over the serried, hardy, shabby, seaside ilex-woods. i had come out of tuscarny and was on my way to the genovesato: the steep country with ts profiles, bay by bay, of successive mountains grey with ollve- trees, between the flashes of the mediterranean and the sky; the country through the which there sounds the twanging genoese language, a thin italian mingled with a little arabic, more portuguese, and much french. i was regretful at leaving the elastic tuscan speech, canorous in its vowels set in emphatic l's and m's and the vigorous soft spring of the double consonants. but as the train arrlved its nolses were drowned by a voice declaiming in the tongue i was not to hear again for months--good italian. the volce was so loud that one looked for the audience: whose ears was it seeking to reach by the violence done to every syllable, and whose feelings would it touch by its insincerity? the tones were insincere, but there was passion behind them; and most often passion acts its own true character poorly, and consciously enough to make good judges think it a mere counterfelt. hamlet, being a little mad, feigned madness. it is when i am angry that i pretend to be angry, so as to present the truth in an obvious and intelligible form. thus even before the words were distinguishable it was mantfest that they were spoken by a man in serlous trouble who had false ideas as to what is convincing in elocution. when the volce became audibly articulate, it proved to be shouting blasphemies from the broad chest of a middle-aged man-an italan of the type that grows stout and wears whiskers. the man was in bourgeols dress, and he stood with his hat off in front of the small station building, shaking his thick fist at the sky. no one was on the platform with him except the railway officlals, who seemed in doubt as to thelr duties in the matter, and two women. of one of these there was nothing to remark except her distress. she wept as she stood at the door of the walting-room. like the second woman, she wore the dress of the shopkeeping class throughout europe, with the local black lace veil in place of a bonnet over her hair. it is of the second woman--o unfortunate creature!- that this record is made-a record without sequel, without consequence; but there is nothing to be done in her regard except so to remember her. and thus much i think i owe after having looked, from the midst of the negative happiness that is given to so many for a space of years, at some minutes of her despalr. she was hanging on the man's arm in her entreaties that he would stop the drama he was enacting. she had wept so hard that her face was disigured. across her nose was the dark purple that comes with overpowering fear. haydon saw it on the face of a woman whose child had just been run over in a london street. i remembered the note in his journal as the woman at vla reggio, in her intolerable hour, turned her head my way, her sobs lifting it. she was afraid that the man would throw himself under the train. she was afraid that he would be damned for his blasphemies; and as to this her fear was mortal fear. it was horrible, too, that she was humpbacked and a dwarf. not until the train drew away from the station did we lose the clamour. no one had tried to silence the man or to soothe the woman's horror. but has any one who saw it forgotten her face? to me for the rest of the day it was a sensible rather than a merely mental image. constantly a red blur rose before my eyes for a background, and agalnst it appeared the dwarf's head, lifted with sobs, under the provincial black lace vell. and at night what emphasls it gained on the boundaries of sleepl close to my hotel there was a roofless theatre crammed with people, where they were gling offenbach. the operas of offenbach still exist in italy, and the little town was placarded with announcements of la bella elena. the peculiar vulgar rhythm of the music jigged audibly through half the hot nght, and the clapping of the town's-folk filled all its pauses. but the persistent noise dld but accompany, for me, the persistent vision of those three figures at the via reggio station in the profound sunshine of the day.
by the railway side