— My father was a cobbler. He died when I was young and I took over his shop. He was a simple man and he made simple shoes. But I found that the more work I put into my shoes, the more people wanted them. You know, fine leather, ornamentation, detailing, and time. Time, most of all. Dozens of hours spent on a single pair.
— Quality takes time.
— Yes. I imagine you've worn a year of someone's life on your back.
– I shouldn't mind living in such a fine house and having nice things… Oh, it doesn't seen like Christmas this year without presents.
– I'm desperate for drawing pencils...
– I wish I didn't have to work for Great-Aunt March... That crabby old miser.
– And you, Beth... What's your Christmas wish?
– I'd like the war to end so father can come home...
– Oh, sweet Beth. We all want that.
Sir Thomas Bertram: — A little abstinence from the luxuries of Mansfield Park might bring your mind into a more sober state. Is that your choice, young woman?
Fanny Price: — Yes. It is.
Edmund Bertram: — Why, Fanny?
Fanny Price: — To be at home again... to be loved by my family, to feel affection without fear or restraint and... to feel myself the equal of those that surround me.
A caravanserai...of billionaire playboy publishers and their blond nurses. Heiresses comparing inheritances on Gatsby's beach. My boss, Walter Chase, losing money at the roulette tables. Gossip columnists alongside... gangsters and governors exchanging telephone numbers. Film stars... Broadway directors... morality protectors...high school defectors.