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We've brought up eight barrels of ale from the cellar.
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- Perhaps we'll find out. - In any case,
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candles.
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Why is your mother so dead set on us getting pretty for the King?
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It's for the Queen, I bet.
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I hear she's a sleek bit of mink.
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I hear the Prince is a right royal prick.
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Think of all those southern girls he gets to stab
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with his right royal prick.
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Go on, Tommy, shear him good.
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He's never met a girl he likes better than his own hair.
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Gods, but they grow fast.