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All right, tell them to bring me the dried figs; ’tis always better than nothing.

Take them away, be off with your crests and get you gone; they are moulting, they are losing all their hair; I would not give a single fig for them.

Good gods, what am I going to do with this fine ten-minæ breast-plate, which is so splendidly made?

Oh, you will lose nothing over it.

I will sell it you at cost price.

’Twould be very useful as a night-stool

Cease your insults, both to me and my wares.

if propped on three stones. Look, ’tis admirable.

But how can you wipe, idiot?

I can pass one hand through here, and the other there, and so

What! do you wipe with both hands?