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"Oh, that's for the sizars," tittered the feeble-minded Boodle, who tittered at everything. "S-s-sizars!" stammered Lord Fitzurse. "What's that mean? Are they v-v-very big f-f-fellows?" "Ha! ha! ha!" said Bruce. "No; they're sons of gyps and that kind of thing, who feed on the semese fragments of the high table." "They must be g-g-ghouls!" said his lordship, shudderingly.
"He's not w-w-worth it," said the host. "He's one of the g-g-ghouls; eh, Bruce ha! ha! ha!" "And here was Labour his own bond slave; Hope That never set the pains against the prize; Idleness halting with his weary clog, And poor misguided Shame and witless Fear And simple Pleasure foraging for Death." Wordsworth. The Prelude.
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