George Emerson: He's the sort who can't know anyone intimately, least of all a woman. He doesn't know what a woman is. He wants you for a possession, something to look at, like a painting or an ivory box. Something to own and to display. He doesn't want you to be real, and to think and to live. He doesn't love you. But I love you. I want you to have your own thoughts and ideas and feelings, even when I hold you in my arms.
Mr. Emerson: I don't care what I see outside. My vision is within! Here is where the birds sing! Here is where the sky is blue!
Reverend Beebe: It's not coincidental that you're here now, when one comes to reflect on it.
George Emerson: I *have* reflected. It's fate. Everything is fate.
Reverend Beebe: You've not reflected at all. Let me cross-examine you. Where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who will marry Miss Honeychurch?
George Emerson: The National Gallery.
Reverend Beebe: Looking at Italian art! You see, you talk of coincidence and fate. You're naturally drawn to things Italian, as are we and all our friends, aren't we, Freddy? That narrows the field immeasurably.
George Emerson: It is fate. But call it Italy if it pleases you, Vicar.
Eleanor Lavish: A young girl, transfigured by Italy! And why shouldn't she be transfigured? It happened to the Goths!
Cecil Vyse: You must forgive me if I say stupid things. My brain has gone to pieces.
Cecil Vyse: You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you're right not to, but... it would help a little, hurt a little less, if I knew why.
Lucy Honeychurch: Because you're the sort who can't know anyone intimately, least of all a woman.
[Cecil looks taken aback and hurt]
Lucy Honeychurch: Well, I don't mean exactly that, but you will go on asking questions!
George Emerson: Kiss me, dear. Again.
Lucy Honeychurch: I'm reading.
George Emerson: What are you reading?
Lucy Honeychurch: It's from Freddy.
George Emerson: What does he say?
Lucy Honeychurch: Silly boy. He thinks he's being dignified. I mean, everybody knew we were going away in the spring.
Charlotte Bartlett: We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt settling of accounts.
Eleanor Lavish: Smell! A true Florentine smell. Inhale, my dear. Deeper! Every city, let me tell you, has its own smell.
New Lucy: Don't you agree that, on one's first visit to Florence, one must have a room with a view?
Cecil Vyse: I have no profession. My attitude - quite an indefensible one - is that as long as I am no trouble to anyone, I have the right to do as I like. It is, I dare say, an example of my decadence.
Cecil Vyse: Temper, Lucy. Temper, please!
Charlotte Bartlett: This is not at all what we were led to expect.
Lucy Honeychurch: I thought we were going to see the Arno.
Charlotte Bartlett: The signora distinctly wrote, South rooms, with a view and close together, instead of which she has given us North rooms without a view and a long way apart.
[Cecil reads off Eleanor Lavish's Novel]
Cecil Vyse: A far off the towers of Florence and she wandered as though in a dream through the wavering golden sea of barley touched with crimson stains of poppies. All unobserved he came to her. Isn't it immortal? There came from his lips no wordy protestations such as formal lovers use, no eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it. He simply unfolded her in his manly arms
Cecil Vyse: So you *do* love me, little thing.
Charlotte Bartlett: In my small way I am a woman of the world. And I know where things can lead to.
Cecil Vyse: What is it about Italy that makes lady novelists reach such summits of absurdity?
Mr. Emerson: Women like looking at a view. Men don't.
Lucy Honeychurch: Why need mother hear of it?
Charlotte Bartlett: Well, you tell her everything, don't you?
Lucy Honeychurch: I suppose I do, generally.
Charlotte Bartlett: There's such a beautiful confidence between you. One would hate to break it. And as I have said before, I am to blame.
Lucy Honeychurch: I wouldn't want mother to think so.
Charlotte Bartlett: She will think so, if you tell her.
Lucy Honeychurch: I shall never speak of it, either to mother or to anyone.
Charlotte Bartlett: We will both be as silent as the grave.