What, the curtains?
Oh, that gun…
Mangoes in syrup . . .
Look, I don’t know, Mr. Wentworth said to come in here and say there was trouble at the mill, I wasn’t expecting a kind of Spanish Inquisition!
You shot him! You shot him dead!
I’m not quite dead yet, sir!
I think she’s dead.
(No, I’m not.)
There. Flopsy’s dead, and never called me Mother.
He must have died while carving it.
I am not Sir Philip Bleedin’ Sydney.
You are…Mary, Queen of Scots?
And what is the name of your ravishing wife? Wait, don’t tell me - it’s something to do with moonlight - it goes with her eyes - it’s soft and gentle, warm and yielding, deeply lyrical and yet tender and frightened like a tiny white rabbit.
That rabbit’s dynamite.
It’s Dierdre.
I’ve always loved Mr. Pewty’s wonderfully boring, tone-deaf, prosaic response to the counselor’s over-the-top romantic query.
She smells a bit, but she has a heart o’gold.
What’s brown and sounds like a bell? Dung!
Dennis! There’s some lovely filth down here!
Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, galloping through the sward,
Dennis Moore, Dennis Moore, and his horse Concorde.
He steals from the rich and gives to the poor,
Mr. Moore, Mr. Moore, Mr. Moore.
Ah, Miss Godfrey, could you send in the pantomime horses please?
It’s a fair cop, but society’s to blame.