Miranda:
What we see and what we seem are but a dream, a dream within a dream.
Marion:
A surprising number of human beings are without purpose, though it is probable that they are performing some function unknown to themselves.
Miranda:
Everything begins and ends at the exactly right time and place.
Irma:
Waiting a million years, just for us.
Irma:
Sara reminds me of a little deer Papa brought home once. I looked after it, but it died. Mama always said it was doomed.
Mr. Whitehead:
There's some questions got answers and some haven't.
Miss McCraw:
This we do for pleasure, so that we may shortly be at the mercy of venomous snakes and poisonous ants. How foolish can human creatures be.
Miranda:
Look! Not down at the ground, Edith. Way up there in the sky.
Edith:
Blanche says Sara writes poetry- in the dunny! She found one there on the floor, all about Miranda.
Mlle. de Poitiers:
Ah! Now I know.
Miss McCraw:
What do you know?
Mlle. de Poitiers:
I know that Miranda is a Botticelli angel.
Edith:
Why can't we just sit on this log, and look at the ugly old rock from here? It's nasty here. I never thought it would be so nasty, or I wouldn't have come!
Rosamund:
What do you think? Miranda, somebody had the nerve to send Miss McCraw a card on squared paper covered with tiny sums.
Miranda:
You must learn to love someone else, apart from me, Sara. I won't be here much longer.
Miss Lumley:
I believe Mrs. Appleyard's decided you're not to go to the picnic, Sara. That makes two of us.
Edith:
I think I must be doomed. I don't feel at all well.
Marion:
I do wish you'd stop talking for once.
Albert Crundall:
I thought the little fat one was gonna take a bath. Some of them are real lookers! Have a look at the shape of the dark one with the curls. Built like an hourglass. And have a guard the last one, the blonde. Oh, she'd have a decent pair of legs- all the way up to her bum.
Michael Fitzhubert:
I'd rather you didn't say crude things like that, Albert.
Albert Crundall:
I say the crude things; you just think them.
Edith:
Except for those people down there, we might be the only living creatures in the whole world.
Miss McCraw:
The mountain comes to Muhammad, and Hanging Rock comes to Mr. Hussey.
Miss McCraw:
Only a million years ago. Quite a recent eruption really. The rocks all round - Mount Macedon itself - must be all of 350 million years old. Siliceous lava, forced up from deep down below. Soda trachytes extruded in a highly viscous state, building the steep sided mamelons we see in Hanging Rock. And quite young geologically speaking. Barely a million years.
Ben Hussey:
Ah, you wouldn't have the time, I suppose, Miss?
Mlle. de Poitiers:
Ah, Miranda- your pretty little diamond watch?
Miranda:
Don't wear it anymore. Can't stand the ticking above my heart.
Irma:
If it were mine, I'd wear it always- even in the bath. Would you Mr. Hussey?
Edith:
May I come, too, please?
Marion:
So long as you don't complain.
Edith:
I won't, I promise.
Miranda:
And don't worry about us Mademoiselle. We shall only be gone a little while.
Sara:
Miranda knows lots of things other people don't know. Secrets. She knew she wouldn't come back.
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