And I want to tell you now who this girl is, because you ought to know; maybe, and maybe there’s no maybe about it, you won’t hear anything like it in all your born days, even if you live to be as old as my mouth sores.” “You mean Methuselah,” replied Don Quixote, unable to tolerate the goatherd’s confusion of words. “My mouth sores last a good long time,” Pedro responded, “and if, Señor, you keep correcting every word I say, we won’t finish in a year.”
