“Now, where were we?” he said. “Oh, yes. We were about to have some honest conversation. Roadkill, are you in love with Hawk?”Roadkill sighed and asked plaintively, “Can’t we just go back to prison?”

“Who died in the shop and how does it already smell like something has been decaying in the hot sun?""Oh, you know us. Brought home some roadkill for kicks.""You didn't wait for me? You know how much I love roadkill. I mean, roadkill is the gift that keeps on giving.”

“In thirty seconds you will wake up," said Aziraphale, to the entranced ex-nun. "And you will have had a lovely dream about whatever you like best, and—""Yes, yes, fine," sighed Crowley. "Now can we go?”

“Some years ago, I read an article about two people in the arts (alas, I can’t remember who they were) who’d been married for many, many years. Asked for the secret of their long partnership, they said: “We fell straight into conversation when we met, and we haven’t come to the end of that conversation yet.”I can’t think of a better model for marriage than that. Or of a narrative more romantic . . . .”

“One white man on the platform in South Carolina asked us where we were going--we had got off the train to get some fresh air and to dust the grit and dust out of our clothes. When we said Africa he looked offended and tickled too. Niggers going to Africa, he said to his wife. Now I have seen everything.”

“…We were born vampires.""I thought you became –""— vampires by being bitten? Dear me, no. Oh, we can turn people into vampires, it’s an easy technique, but what would be the point? When you eat… now what is it you eat? Oh yes, chocolate… you don’t want to turn it into another Agnes Nitt, do you? Less chocolate to go around."He sighed. "Oh dear, superstition, superstition everywhere we turn.”