.
.
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Oh dear, that’ll be the Cheap-Laughs from next door.
O Knights… who until recently said “Ni.”
It is a bond wherewith the savage man may charm the outward hatchments of his soul, and soothe the troubled breast into a magnitude of quiet. It is most precious as a blessed balm, the saviour of princes, the harbinger of happiness, yea, the very stuff and pith of all we hold most dear. What frees the prisoner in his lonely cell, chained within the bondage of rude walls, far from the owl of Thebes? What fires and stirs the woodcock in his springe or wakes the drowsy apricot betides? What goddess doth the storm toss’d mariner offer her most tempestuous prayers to? Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!
Be quiet! I order you to be quiet!
It’s a fair cop.
It’s…
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No. 1. The Larch. The… Larch.
Bingo, bingo!
Bicycle Repairman!
It’s a bazooka!
You know, not attractive to men, sir.
It’s a Man’s Life in the Cardiff Rooms, Libya.
Now, why do witches burn?
The tenants arrive in the entrance hall here, and are carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme comfort and past murals depicting Mediterranean scenes, towards the rotating knives. The last twenty feet of the corridor are heavily soundproofed.
Have the new paper clips arrived, Enid?
Message for you, Sire!
And get the machine that goes ‘ping!’.