— And are we to do all this without telling Papa? Isn't that rather underhand?
— There can be too much truth in any relationship.
When your only child dies...then you're not a mother anymore. You're not anything, really.
— I've been good to you, Ivy. I've been polite. I've taken you to the theater and to the cinema. I've never been that nice to any girl before.
— Am I supposed to feel lucky?
— It's dishonest to grab a bloke for all he can offer without giving him nothing in return. I don't think it's playing the game.
— Well, I'm not playing your game. You'd better get used to that idea!
— If we don't respect the past, we'll find it harder to build our future.
— Where did you read that?
— I made it up. I thought it was rather good.
— It's too good. One thing we don't want is a poet in the family.
— Would it be so bad?
— The only poet peer I am familiar with is Lord Byron. And I presume you all know how that ended.
— Then, will you take young Pegg? He impressed me so favourably.
— I wonder your halo doesn't grow heavy. It must be like wearing a tiara round the clock.
— Will you help him? His mother would be very grateful. And so would I.
— Yes, but your gratitude never seems too last. I've no sooner said yes than you come back with another request.
Well, if we only had moral thoughts, what would the poor churchmen find to do?
I'm not unhappy. I'm just not quite ready to be happy.