Rev. Harry Powell: There are things you do hate, Lord. Perfume-smellin' things, lacy things, things with curly hair.
Rev. Harry Powell: I can hear you whisperin' children, so I know you're down there. I can feel myself gettin' awful mad. I'm out of patience children. I'm coming to find you now.
Rev. Harry Powell: Now just tell me. Where's the money hid? Pearl Harper: But I swore I promised John I wouldn't tell. Rev. Harry Powell: John doesn't matter! Can't I get that through your head, you poor, silly, disgusting little wretch.