Brogan-Moore: Touching isn't it? The way he counts on his wife. Sir Wilfrid: Yes, like a drowning man clutching at a razor blade.
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: Teeny weeny flight of steps, Sir Wilfrid, we mustn't forget we've had a teeny weeny heart attack.
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.
Miss Plimsoll: Is there too much of a draft? Should I roll up the window? Sir Wilfrid: Just roll up your mouth, you talk too much. If I had known how much you talk I'd never have come out of my coma.
