Satine: I don’t need you anymore! All my life you made believe I was only worth what someone would pay for me! But Christian loves me. He loves me! He loves me, Harold. And that is worth everything! We’re going away from you, away from the Duke, away from the Moulin Rouge!

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Satine: Please tell me you’re not one of Toulouse’s oh so talented, charmingly bohemian, tragically impoverished writers?