Time flies when you're having fun.
During these suppers McCluskey's conversation centred almost exclusively around the parlous moral, cultural and environmental state of the planet.
So that if a boor complains of a broken-head, or a beer-seller of a broken can, or a daft wench does but squeak loud enough to be heard above her breath, a soldier of honour shall be dragged, not before his own court-martial, who can best judge of and punish his demerits, but before a base mechanical burgo-master, who shall menace him with the rasp-house, the cord, and what not, as if he were one of their own mean, amphibious, twenty-breeched boors.
The data got lost, so I'll have to perform another run of the experiment.
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