— Happy or sad?
— Sad.
— Okay, but I warn you; I'll break your heart.
— Already broken.
— What was your father's profession?
— Well, he, erm... He told fortunes and stole horses. Often he would tell a man that his horse would be stolen and they would marvel at his powers when it was.
— You think I am a whore?
— Everyone's a whore, Grace. We just sell different parts of ourselves.
— I love you.
— And there it goes, Grace. Away it goes...
— Thomas Shelby.
— My hand was blood.
— Oh, mine too.
— What are you doing, Tommy?
— Shovelling shit, Curly. Just like you.
— Why're you doing that, Tommy?
— To remind myself what I'd be if I wasn't who I am.
In pubs sometimes people say things and sometimes it’s the whisky talking. It’s hard to tell which is which.
You have to get what you want, your own way.
You don't parley when you're on the back foot.
— You know, there are days <...> that I really wish I'd let you take that bullet in France.
— Believe me, there are nights I wish you had.