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: What is it? Mrs. Tweedy
: It's a pie machine, you idiot. Chickens go in, pies come out. Mr. Tweedy
: Ooh. What kind of pies? Mrs. Tweedy
: Apple. Mr. Tweedy
: My favourite! Mrs. Tweedy
: Chicken pies, you great lummox! Imagine. In less than a fortnight, every grocers' in the county will be stocked with box upon box of Mrs. Tweedy's Homemade Chicken Pies. Mr. Tweedy
: Just "Mrs."? Mrs. Tweedy
: Woman's touch. Makes the public feel more comfortable.
: [being attacked by chickens
] Mrs Tweedy! The chickens are revolting! Mrs. Tweedy
: [with her back turned
] Finally, something we agree on.
: They're *chickens*, you dolt. Apart from you, they're the most stupid creatures on this planet. They don't plot, they don't scheme, and they are *not* organised.
: What... what... what's all this, then? Mrs. Tweedy
: This is our future, Mr. Tweedy. No more wasting time with petty egg collecting and minuscule profits. Mr. Tweedy
: No more eggs? But we've always been egg farmers. Me father, and his father, and all their fathers, they was all... Mrs. Tweedy
: Poor. Worthless. Nothings. But all that is about to change. This will take Tweedy's farm out of the Dark Ages and into full-scale automated production. Melicia Tweedy will be poor no longer.