Mrs. Munro: Your dad hated what he did for a living. Mechanic in a garage, like his dad before him. When he got called up, he said to me, "My love, I'll not spend this war "underneath the oil pan of some toff's jeep. "I'm gonna put in for the RAF." So he did. He trained. Scored high marks, got assigned to a Bristol Blenheim, Mark IV. Blown out of the sky. First time up. All his mates who worked the motor pool came home without a scratch.
Sherlock Holmes: A man abandoned his family and wrote his son a story. He wouldn't be the first to cloak his cowardice in a flag of sacrifice.
Roger: I shouldn't have said what I said.
Mrs. Munro: Lesson there, then. Don't say everything you think.
Sherlock Holmes: I was given a small chest containing the Watson stories, none of which I'd ever actually read. They were, as John always described them, penny dreadfuls with an elevated prose style.
Sherlock Holmes: I have been alone. All my life. But with the compensations of the intellect.
Ann Kelmot: And is that enough?
Sherlock Holmes: It can be. If one is so fortunate as to find a place in the world. And another soul with whom one's loneliness can reside.
Sherlock Holmes: Exceptional children are often the product of unremarkable parents.
Sherlock Holmes: There seems to be an outbreak of mortality.
Sherlock Holmes: And so ends the story about a woman who died before her time, and a man who had long outlived his.
