Master Barbary:
I walk the city streets, looking out for the rickshaws, free primates, reptilian transports... I'm no fool, mind you, I appreciate self-preservation. Still, I notice changes to the air, to the percipitation... sun and moon. At times I can pluck my dinner from a vine, at least reach to the ground for a mango; discarding unwanted roots. At other times I find no fruit, but pluck my finger on a thorn. Still other times I reach for a vine and there's nothing but concrete slabs. Needless to say, they bear no edible fruits.
The Doctor:
What do you know about beauty? A POX ON YOU!
The Doctor:
No more funny business, China-man!
Maid 1:
Doctor, have you heard? Miss Marilla Huxley...
The Doctor:
Spit it out, you bumbling idiot!
Maid 1:
She's gone!
The Doctor:
Gone? She didn't have an appointment today. What sort of nonsense are you spewing, girl?
Maid 1:
She's dead, sir.
The Doctor:
Oh yeah?
Maid 1:
Her mother was taking her on a holiday to the mountains but the train derailed while passing over a cranberry bog.
The Doctor:
Oh, the Northern Bog?
Maid 1:
No, the Eastern Bog, with its vipers and vultures.
The Doctor:
But my harpsichord is fine, correct?
The Narrator:
The Doctor looked out past the vegetation, to his estate and through it, at the ghosts and medieval steppes, to jungles that once filled his town. He could take no more, so he covered his eyes. Dawn came, and he moved his hands.复制复制成功复制失败，请手动复制
