Bella Hedley Quotes in The Barretts of Wimpole Street (1934)

Edward Moulton-Barrett: If my children were as bright and open and affectionate as you are, I should be a much happier man.

Bella Hedley: Oh, you mustn't say such things or they'll hate me!

Edward Moulton-Barrett: And you're a very charming little person.

Bella Hedley: Anything wong, in that?

Edward Moulton-Barrett: I didn't say so. What's that scent you got on?

Bella Hedley: Scent? Me? Oh, don't you like it?

Edward Moulton-Barrett: I abominate scent, as a rule, but yours is different.

Bella Hedley: Nice?

Edward Moulton-Barrett: It's delicate and subtle. Still, I prefer you not to use it.

Bella Hedley: Why?

Edward Moulton-Barrett: Nevermind.

Bella Hedley: Oh, Uncle, you're a dawling. You called me bwight and open and affectionate, charming and fwagrant. All within a few minutes. You may kiss me.

[Kiss]

Bella Hedley: Poor Ba, so pale. So faawgile. So inferior. One has only to see your dear face to know how near you are to heaven.

Elizabeth Barrett: I wouldn't quite say that, Bella

Bella Hedley: Oh yes! You always have a look in your eyes, darling, as if you already saw the angels.

Henrietta Barrett: You've spoken to Papa. I like that. Why, you sat on his knees and stroked his whiskers.

Bella Hedley: And why not? Isn't he my Uncle? And besides that, I think he's most foughtfully frilling. I adore that stern and gloomy type of gentleman.

Bella Hedley: And I must tell you Ba how much I adore your poem. Especially when dear Harwy weeds them. He weeds so beautifully. And he too adores your poem. Which ought to please you, as he's wedfully critical.

Wilson: Excuse me, Miss Elizabeth. Mr. Browning's downstairs.

Elizabeth Barrett: Oh, well - ask him to wait, please.

Bella Hedley: Oh, no dear, cousin. Ask him to come white up. We have to go downstairs and have tea with Uncle Edward. And besides, we wouldn't dweam of interrupting your tete-a-tete. Isn't it frilling, Harry. Mr. Browning's a poet and Miss Elizabeth's a poet. Isn't that a coincidence?

Harry Bevan: Oh, quaint, my dear, quaint.

Bella Hedley: Oh, Mr. Browning, I'm so frilled to see you. It is Mr. Browning, isn't it? It must be, because I've always heard him called the handsomest poet in England. Of course, you don't know poor little me!

Robert Browning: Nevertheless, Madame, I thank you.

[Mr. Browning exits]

Bella Hedley: Isn't he wonderful! It's he divine! The loveliest little shivers are wunning white down my back.