human
Michael, this is all like Yoredale, said Kit unguardedly.
gpt
Here’s a Christmas pie.
human
There are Royalists among us,
gpt
What is all this nonsense, friends?
human
We call it mince-meat now. None of your Christmases for us, or any other Masses. None of Red Rome for us, I say. Banbury kills any man who talks of Masses.
gpt
We’ve blundered somehow, Kit,
human
Say, do you stand for the King? asked the Roundhead.
gpt
Yes or no—do you stand for the King?
human
Why, yes, said Kit.
gpt
Come on, you six crop-headed louts.