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Updated: May 13, 2025
"Yes," he said. "Freedom." "That's it," she cried. "Freedom I'm a slave. I've always been-a slave to my lawyers and trustees, a tool in the hands of the people who fatten on me, the servants who rob me, the guests who flatter and use me, the people of society to invite me to their houses and take my character when my back is turned.
"I," he was saying, "am Pietro Moresco. I have-a da nice political posish, an' nice-a barber-shop on Mulberry-a Strit. Some-a day I getta on da force da pollis-force. Sure t'ing. I been-a home to see ma moth. I go-a back to make-a da more mon." He pulled out from his corded bundle of red quilts and coats and rugs some bottles of cheap wine. "I getta place for all you men."
The little chap was evidently in a talkative mood, and I nudged Colin to do the honours of the conversation. "Pal-aer-mo? Indeed!" said Colin. "Fine city, I guess." "Been-a Pal-aer-mo?" asked the Italian eagerly. Colin couldn't say that he had. "Great city, Pal-aer-mo," continued our friend, "great theatre cost sixteen million dollars."
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