human
I couldn't do that, Bob, he said,
gpt
Oh! it's 'baccy as is my chief joy, At mornin', noon and night; An' it's verily my belief, boy, That I love it with all my might. If your liver an' lungs are squeakin', An' your head is growin' cracky, There's nothin' so sure to kill or cure, As fumes o' the strongest 'baccy.
human
If it would improve your voice, Terrence, observed Mr Mitford, meekly,
gpt
I'm sure I wish ye had pounds of it, for it's that harsh-- though, of course, I make no pretence to music myself, but--
human
Just listen to that now, `Harsh!' an' that to a man whose own mother, by the father's side, towld him he shud make music his purfession! Arrah, howld on, Black Ned, ye spalpeen; ye've had two helpin's already!