“How's the blood-stream, my dear, invaluable little woman? How's the blood-stream?"..."It's quite comfortable, sir...I think, sir, thank you."..."Aha!"..."a comfortable stream, is it? Aha! v-e-r-y good. V-e-r-y good. Dawdling 'twixt hill and hill, no doubt. Meandering through groves of bone, threading the tissues and giving what sustenance it can to your dear old body...I am so glad. But in yourself - right deep down in yourself - how do you feel? Carnally speaking, are you at peace - from the dear grey hairs of your head to the patter of your little feet - are you at peace?" "What does he mean, dear?" said poor Mrs. Slagg, clutching Fuschia's arm...."He wants to know if you feel well or not.”

“Well, sir, do you mean to remain there, commending my father’s taste in wine, or do you mean to accompany me to Ashtead?”“Set off for Ashtead at this hour, when I have been traveling for two days?” said Sir Horace. “Now, do, my boy, have a little common sense! Why should I?”“I imagine that your parental feeling, sir, must provide you with the answer! If it does not, so be it! I am leaving immediately!”“What do you mean to do when you reach Lacy Manor?” asked Sir Horace, regarding him in some amusement.“Wring Sophy’s neck!” said Mr. Rivenhall savagely.“Well, you don’t need my help for that, my dear boy!” said Sir Horace, settling himself more comfortably in his chair.”

“[...]my memory is reasonably good—unlike yours, dear sir!”“Mine is erratic,” he said imperturbably. “I remember only what interests me.”

“My dear little daughter,” said he, “you cannot be so glad to come back as my arms and my heart will be to receive you.”

“Dear Sir: Regarding your article 'What's Wrong with the World?' I am. Yours truly,”

“What was it? Why won't you tell me?""I don't want to break down your illusions.""My dear man, I have no illusions about you.""I mean illusions about yourself.”