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But when the last shred of garlic or last gobbet of pork had been fished up, when the wine-skin was flabby, the last crust's memory faded from the toothpick, Petruccio slapped Silvestro on the knee. "Now, comrade," cried he, "we'll have the Jew for dessert." "The Jew, the Jew! Now for the Jew!" went the chorus. Silvestro coloured. "The Jew? Eh, well, I killed him ecco!"
"Hist, Silvestro," whispered one, with a nudge; "did he bleed much?" "Cosa terribile a flood!" Silvestro spread out his hands. "Cristo! The glory of it!" "Valentino, I scrag you, my man, if you speak of the Jew till we are out of the Porta San Zuan," growled Petruccio, the leader: "Avanti!" And the drab-coloured crew moved off towards the sunset.
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