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In time so long ago begins our play, In star-crossed galaxy far, far away.
[They shoot, Greedo dies. [To innkeeper:] Pray, goodly Sir, forgive me for the mess. [Aside:] And whether I shot first, I’ll ne’er confess!
Thou truly art in jest. Art thou not small Of stature, if thou art a stormtrooper? Does Empire shrink for want of taller troops? The Empire’s evil ways, I’ll grant, are grand, But must its soldiers want for fear of height?
