The Manor

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
You'll excuse me if my husband's recent... headlong plunge down the main staircase is not one of my *favourite* topics of conversation.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
What are you doing here? Burning the meat?

Dolly:
Em... no ma'am... we're burning the gravy.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
Ah! It's the gravy, is it? Oh well, that's all right then I suppose. Excuse me inspector, I must just go now and supervise the... eh... ritual burning of the gravy.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
Dolly! *Why* is the pudding on the floor?

Dolly:
Well, I put it down there to cool ma'am. There's a nice draught down there.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
Well, it must be cool enough *now*. The cat's eating it.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
When Mrs French saw that much the same thing had happened to Patrick, I suppose her first assumption was that I must have taken up throwing men down staircases as a kind of hobby.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
Good Lord! You don't think that we are throwing all the men in the immediate vicinity down the staircase, do you?

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
I swear on my mother's grave!

Dolly:
But your mother is alive! She lives over a pub in Bristol.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
Well, then... I swear on my mother's pub!

Mr. Forrester:
Any particular reason you put that foreigner Hatcher on this? The man can barely speak English.

Sir Everett Blake:
Since when did speaking English become an advantage when communicating with the Ravenscrofts, hm? Well, my good man, here we are at the beginning of a new century, and it seems any one with a slightly exotic accent can start their own country.

Mrs. Ravenscroft:
Dolly! Get your wretched wiggely little bum in here!

Dolly:
Excuse me sir. If I don't go she'll kill me. Well... I don't mean actually kill me. I was speaking... you know... metaphysically.

Inspector Tomas Hatcher:
You mean... metaphorically?

Dolly:
As you say, sir.