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Talk about your nice dispositions—we have a man in our town who retires early rather than keep the bedbugs waiting for supper.
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Has anyone heard that little ballad entitled “Who shot Nellie in the freckle?”
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What could be sweeter than the rib music of choir-practors.
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Fair Dancer—Say, walk over your own feet!
He—What do you think I am, a cross-country runner?
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