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 Lojzka. In the name of all the saints and prophets! Your words and your looks out your past. . . How you kneeled at the altar. . . At the cleric!

Komar. Who kneeled? At whom?

Geni. You kissed his palms as well.

Komar. Liar! I did not toss a kiss on his palms! Had I kneeled in front of some random toll-collector and kissed his palms – who would blame such a Christian?

Geni. Do not blush! I as well have gotten myself a bible.

Principal. I am sorry to have to remind you of the eternal principle to not enter schools as ideologues, especially not in a form to a common only permissible on Friday nights.

Lojzka.

Komar. Who is not with the people is against the people. How can a sinner be a guide to the youth? The people would dis-fellowship itself, had it had to have its children taught by a spiritless and faithless being. It would be. . . So to say. . . A cultural suicide.

Lojzka. You recite that well. . . I read it as so as well.

Geni. Why force yourself, oh lost soul, wander into the rural of Athens?

Komar. Hvastja as well does so. . . One could not examine their inner self, not even with a dozen or more lenses of magnification.

Principal. They weigh their words and when met, always wear black.