Vanity Fair

It's time I returned to England.
Here's your medicine, Sir Pitt.
Take it away. There's no medicine
can cure what ails me.

I'm dying, Horrocks.
This is the end.
Oh, come, Sir Pitt.

Shall I fetch Mr. Pitt?
Or the doctor?

Or the lawyer?
That's the question, Horrocks.
Pitt's had Tilly's money.
Shall he have mine too?
Or should it go to Rawdon? Hmm?
And foxy little Becky?
I can fetch the lawyer
if you want me to, sir.

Uh? Oh, no.
No. Let Pitt have it all. Yeah.
He's a pompous beggar,
but he'll keep
this old place together.

And your piano practice?
I hope you've not been neglecting it.

No, Miss... I mean Mrs. Crawley.
I'm glad to hear it.
You must play for me.

And, Rose,
what is your best subject?

No airs. No bid to bury
her governess's past.

You cannot dislike her for that, surely?
No. I agree.
Not for that.

Uh, Rawdon, after luncheon,
perhaps you'd like to see my pamphlet
on the emancipation issue?
Oh, God, help me.

Uh, Mrs., uh, Crawley,
when you told Miss Crawley
that your mother
was a Montmorency...