Your name, girl. If we are blood, name it. - I did not? Abigail Hill. - SARAH: The Somerset Hills? The one who went mad and burnt his own house down, himself in it? Lost all his money at whist. No one bets on whist. My uncle was one of a kind. ABIGAIL: I apologize for my appearance. The staff led me here. A harmless prank of some sort, I suspect. SARAH: And you want...
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I have a letter from our aunt... and...
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[CLASSICAL MUSIC PLAYING]
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The letter from our aunt.
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I fell out of a carriage.
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And a man was pulling his...
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Dear cousin.
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- Your Majesty, if I may... - No, you may not! He will be charged. They will be banished. I have spoken. Get out!
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I suddenly feel so tired of England, my darling.
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Perhaps we should go somewhere else.
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Ah, the mail is here.
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[RABBIT SQUEALS]
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[SIGHS]
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Anne?
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Yes.
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Our last farthing to protect England if we must. HARLEY: And our last man, too? Look, the dead pile up, as do the resentments. - Or that does not concern you? - SARAH: I grieve them all. In my heart, a scar for each, and I send my own beloved with them, chest bared. So do not lecture me on the cost.
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HARLEY: Might I remind you you're not the queen? No, she has sent me to speak for her. She is unwell. PRIME MINISTER: What says she? That Harley is a fop and a prat and smells like a 96-year-old French whore's vajuju. Oh?
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Must the duck be here? Fastest duck in the city. Horatio is a prize worth stealing. He does not leave my side. Keep him away from me, or I will pull his liver out and eat it with a cornichon.