Lily: The whole thing sounds underhanded, disgraceful and messy, and you can count on me.
Lily: How do you want your eggs? Poached, fried or raw?
Tom Meade: Scrambled - like your head.
Tom Meade: What kind of mood was Martha in when she got home?
Lily: She was so mad, I couldn't tell.
Tom Meade: Well, at least she still loves me enough to hate me.