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Lucille Sharpe: [Looking at the dead butterflies] They're dying. They take the heat from the sun, and when it deserts them, they die.Edith Cushing: How sad.Lucille Sharpe: No, it's not sad, Edith. It's nature. It's a world of everything dying and eating each other right beneath our feet.Edith Cushing: Surely there's more to it than that.Lucille Sharpe: [Looking at Edith] Beautiful things are fragile... At home we have only black moths. Formidable creatures, to be sure, but they lack beauty. They thrive on the dark and cold.Edith Cushing: What do they feed on?Lucille Sharpe: Butterflies, I'm afraid.

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