The content of this page was created by users. It has not been screened or verified by IMDb staff.
: Ghosts are real, that much I know. I've seen them all my life...
: You're monsters. Both of you! Lucille Sharpe
: Funny. That's the last thing Mother said, too.
: [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.
: You're so... different. Edith Cushing
: From who? Thomas Sharpe
: There is nothing to hold us in America. Edith Cushing
: I see. Thomas Sharpe
: Your novel. I read the new chapters and having delivered it in the morning. Will you still like to know my thoughts? Edith Cushing
: If we must. Thomas Sharpe
: It's absurdly sentimental. The aches that you describe with such earnestness, the pain, the loss. You clearly have not lived it at all. In fact, you only seem to know what other writers tell. Edith Cushing
: That's enough! Thomas Sharpe
: You insist on describing the torments of love when you clearly know NOTHING about them. I'M NOT DONE YET! What do you dream on? A kind man?A pure soul to be redeemed? Affection? Affection has no place in love, Edith. I advise you to return to your ghosts and fancies, the sooner the better. You know precious little about the human heart or love or the pain that comes with. You are nothing but a SPOILED CHILD!
: Ghosts are real, this much I know. There are things that tie them to a place, very much like they do to us. Some remain tethered to a patch of land, a time and date, the spilling of blood, a terrible crime... There are others, others that hold onto an emotion, a drive, loss, revenge, or love. Those, they never go away.
] Edith Cushing
] Ghosts are real. This much I know. The first time I saw one I was 10 years old. It was my mother's. Black cholera had taken her. So Father ordered a closed casket, asked me not to look. There were to be no parting kisses. No goodbyes. No last words. That is, until the night she came back.
: It seems he's a baronet. Society Girl
: What's a baronet? Society Girl
: Well, an aristocrat of some sort. Edith Cushing
: A man that feeds off land that others work for him. A parasite with a title. Society Girl
: This parasite is perfectly charming and a magnificent dancer. Although, that wouldn't concern you, would it, Edith, our very young Jane Austen?
: [about to dance
] I've always closed my eyes to things that made me uncomfortable. It makes everything easier. Edith Cushing
: I don't want to close my eyes. I want to keep them open.
: [entering his mansion
] Goodness. How many rooms are there? Thomas Sharpe
: I don't know. Would you like to count them?
: [about portrait of Lady Sharpe
] She looks quite... Lucille Sharpe
: Horrible? Edith Cushing
: Yes. Lucille Sharpe
: It's an excellent likeness.
] Edith Cushing
] Ghosts are real. This much, I know. Man
: [in the distance
] Lady Sharpe! Lady Sharpe! Edith Cushing
: There are things that tie them to a place, very much like they do us. Some remain tethered to a patch of land. A time and date. The spilling of blood. A terrible crime. But there are others. Others that hold onto an emotion. A drive. Loss. Revenge. Or love. Those, they never go away.
: I heard you the first time.