Miss Plimsoll: I almost married a lawyer once. I was in attendance when he had his appendectomy, and we became engaged as soon as he could sit up... and then peritonitis set in and he went just like that!
Sir Wilfrid: He certainly was a lucky lawyer.
Miss Plimsoll: It's beddy-bye. We better go upstairs now, get undressed and lie down.
Sir Wilfrid: We? What a nauseating prospect.
Miss Plimsoll: I shall have a very serious talk with Doctor Harrison. It was a mistake to let you come back here. I shall take you directly to a rest home or resort. Some place quiet, far off, like Bermuda.
Sir Wilfrid: Shut up. You just want to see me in those nasty shorts.
Sir Wilfrid: Doctors! They've deprived me of everything: alcohol, tobacco, female companionship!
Christine Vole: [shortly after Christine is attacked by soldiers] You better get out of here. You've been trouble enough.
Leonard Vole: Actually, it's your own fault. That costume in the picture outside gave the boys ideas, and then those trousers of yours let them down hard.
Miss Plimsoll: Teeny weeny flight of steps, Sir Wilfrid, we mustn't forget we've had a teeny weeny heart attack.
Christine Vole: It isn't even my letter paper! I write my letters on small, blue paper with my initials on it?
Sir Wilfrid: Like these?
[pulling out a sheaf of letters on blue paper]
Christine Vole: Damn you! Damn you! Let me go! Let me get out of here!
Miss Plimsoll: Our nap! Sir Wilfrid! Our nap!
Sir Wilfrid: You go on ahead. Start it without me.
Christine Vole: You think Mrs. French looked upon Leonard as a son? Or a nephew?
Brogan-Moore: I do. An entirely natural and understandable relationship.
Christine Vole: What hypocrites you are in this country.
Leonard Vole: [in Christine's bombed-out hovel] It's horrible! In a gemutlich sort of way.
Mr. Myers: I hope we are not to be deprived of the learned and stimulating company of Sir Wilfrid?
Christine Vole: You are burning my nose.
Sir Wilfrid: I could probably think better if you gave me one of those cigars.
Mrs. French: Do sit down and don't mind Janet, Mr. Vole, its just that she's terribly Scotch.
Mrs. French: You know, maybe I'll take a glass of sherry, myself. I feel like Christmas, somehow. Ha-ha.
Sir Wilfrid: I have done an unethical thing. I have taken your cigar and I am not taking your case.
Sir Wilfrid: Ah, Miss Plimsoll, how alluring you look. Waiting like a hangman on the scaffold...
Sir Wilfrid: Might as well get a bigger box of more mothballs and put me away to.
