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Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out.
This is your house as well as mine. I feel it's only fair that I tell you something now.
(Montag): It's strange, I don't miss her, it's strange I don't feel much of anything. Even if she dies, I realized a moment ago, I don't think I'll feel sad. It isn't right. Something must be wrong with me.
I wonder if they were the ones who killed Clarisse.
Let's get him!
At least once in his career, every firemen gets an itch. What do the books say, he wonders. Oh, to scratch that itch, eh?
Mrs. Black, are you asleep in there? This isn't good, but your husband did it to others and never asked and never wondered and never worried.
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