"It is a rare pleasure, Mr Farquhar, to explore these subjects in a civilised manner. I always look forward to our discussions with a keen appetite. In these vulgarised times, a person is often embarrassed by the rigours of impolite company."
"Indeed, Miss Quivering, I fear that what my friend Juxtable calls 'the New Barbarism' all but overwhelms those of us who would preserve our little oasis of gentility."
"Oh, but no, Mr Farquhar! I'll not allow it! Not whilst a man such as yourself - let alone your friend Mr Juxtable - is abroad. The barbarian hordes shall never prevail!"
"Ah, my dear, you flatter me, though 'tis well spoken. You are a most noble and brave person, to take such a stand against all the forces of sensual brutality that beset us in these latter days."
"Don't be troubled, my good Sir. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that there is one little person who lives in Lyme who knows a noble soul when she sees it!"
"Ah, Miss Quivering! How beautiful are your sentiments. It is only the very poetry of a true heart that can soothe the troubled soul of a man who is wearied by the toils of the world."
"But come, my good Mr Farquhar. Let us to business. Pray furnish me with your opinions upon my new furniture!"
"But of course, Miss Quivering. Please forgive an old soldier his brown study. Your new furniture indeed.
"It is exactly the model of a well-turned leg that I like, Miss Quivering. What curves, and what a turned knob! I am in heaven. I could never resist such a scrolled back, nor the coaxing sight of your pin hinges and turned bun feet.
"And, oh, I fear that I must ask you something, my dear lady, that I am most fearful of asking. Will you allow me an impertinence, my dear, noble young lady?"
"Oh, Mr Farquhar! How you lure a simple girl, who has never been versed in the subtle arts of the world - how you coax me to the very borders of propriety! Ask away, my gallant hero! There is a little person in Lyme who is all a-Quivering to hear your manly voice probe her defences and strike home!"
"Then strike I shall, daughter of all that is fair and honoured on God's troubled Earth. Would you, oh could you, countenance my borrowing your Butler's wax, and getting my very hands about your carved pediments and dovetail joints and splayed legs and clawed feet, and rubbing and rubbing until they shone like the very light from Heaven?"
"Mr Farquhar! Though I feel quite faint under the broadside of such an attack - for it has quite taken me aback and come at me amidships - yet I can stand it, and relish it too! My noble gentleman, how can I refuse?
"And yet, there is - I am afraid - one impediment that must prevent you, oh Captain of my heart and furniture!"
"Nay, my dear. Pray, tell a poor man why he does not deserve the honour of servicing your most excellent woodwork!"
"Mr Farquhar, it is not a question of deserving. Never a matter of desserts! None could ever deserve so dearly and so well!"
"Then what, my dear lady...?"
"It is Sphincter, most noble Sir. Sphincter is the impediment."
"I beg you pardon, my dear girl? Is this a medical...?"
"Mr Farquhar, I beg of you! Don't! Sphincter is our butler. He is at this very moment using the beeswax. For he is - as you put it so urgently and so elegantly - rubbing and rubbing up the tallboy in the Hall!"