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: You know, I feel sorry for that nice Mr. Vole. And not just because he was arrested, but that wife of his, she must be German. I suppose that's what happens when we let our boys cross the Channel. They go crazy! Personally, I think the government should do something about those foreign wives. Like an embargo. How else can we take care of our own surplus. Don't you agree Sir Wilfrid?
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.
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.
Miss Plimsoll: Teeny weeny flight of steps, Sir Wilfrid, we mustn't forget we've had a teeny weeny heart attack.
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.
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