There are three constants to be expected when walking on a brisk Corsican afternoon: a warm breeze at your tail, an impassioned support (or contentious rebuttal) of the radical new chestnut-tree tax, and an unprovoked invitation to wed a charming if not slightly bemused local girl
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I didn't mean to intrude.
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[He will laugh like hell when it happens, though.]
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[How nice it is to find a proper gentleman in this day and age! Color Samuel impressed.]
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[Batou drags on his cigarette.]
If she's not a virgin I'll sell her to the abattoir and she can find her fortune as a gristle-maid.
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As for the inquiry, I'm certain she is pure. As a man of science you must be aware that if she was not, her voice would be bespattered with imperfect pitch. Poor vocal control is God and nature's way of telling us a girl has a bit of a loose attitude, after all!
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[Draaaaag.]
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[Batou is drunk.
He thinks back to the lesbian pornography he's seen. Ashes his cigarette.]
... says it's a healthy and normal expression of female sexuality.
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