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And I cannot, in good conscience
-
participate in this kind of business any longer.
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This would make such a good book.
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I'll drink to that.
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Outside, fat snow flakes
-
are falling on slate roofs and granite walls.
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Like Solzhenitsyn laboring in Vermont,
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I shall beaver away in exile.
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Unlike Solzhenitsyn, I shan't be alone.
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Goddamn you, sir, if you were not my daughter's husband...
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Hello, father.
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Tilda?