...unless they send out the Angel Gabriel now, they are toast! T-O-S-T-E. Toast.
— Was it always this easy?
— Easy?
— I keep planning complicated strategic strikes to spread misery and panic among the humans and just as I'm about to put one into motion, they come up with something themselves, which is so much worse than anything I could have thought of.
— Yeah, always this easy.
— Why don't you wait inside? You like waiting inside.
— I don't think so. You've got an amnesiac Archangel hiding out in your bookshop. I spent last night worrying If he's going to wake up. What if he remembers who he is, what if he's faking it? He could smite me. When Gabriel smites you, you've been... Smited? Smut?
— Smitten. I believe.
— You know what it's like when you don't know anything at all and yet you're totally certain that everything would be better if you were just near one particular person?
— No! Certainly not.
— You remember Jane Austen?
— I'm not gonna forget her in a hurry, am I. The brains behind the 1810 Clerkenwell Diamond Robbery. Brandy smuggler. Master spy. What a piece of work.
— She wrote books. Novels.
— Jane? Austen???
— Yes!
— Whoa, bit of a dark horse. Novels, eh?
— Yes. They were very good.
— Well. No, I'm just surprised, that's all. You think you know someone...
— Beelzebub's not happy with you.
— Oh, really? Beelzebub? Not happy? But they're always such a little ray of sunshine!
It's too late for that now, isn't it? It's always too late.
— You know... that was a very nice thing you did for me.
— Shut up.