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But the real question is, why are you not dead?
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Flesh wound.
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Sight must be off. Who takes care of my pistols?
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Captain Rochefort, I...
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Whoa, whoa, steady.
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Wouldn't want to dirty my blade with peasant blood.
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So, boy,
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consider this a lesson.
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Your last.
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No.
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He's too pretty for that.
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As you wish, Milady.