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| Out, damned spot! out, I say!--One: two: why, then, 'tis time to do't.--Hell is murky!--Fie, my lord, fie! | |
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| The thane of Fife had a wife: where is she now?--What, will these hands ne'er be clean? | |
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| Here's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! | |
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