Sir August de Wynter:
Take India. You can have a good 10 inches overnight, there.
Sir August de Wynter:
Nothing is impossible, only mathematically improbable.
Sir August de Wynter:
"John Steed." What a horse's arse of a name.
Sir August de Winter:
You will buy your weather from me! And by God you'll pay for it.
Sir August de Winter:
A man with an umbrella is a man praying for rain.
John Steed:
And a man without one is a fool.
John Steed:
So much for science, I'll stick to swordplay.
John Steed:
Oh, just one thing...
Emma Peel:
Good luck?
John Steed:
Something like that.
John Steed:
After all, according to your file, you're a psychopathic personality with schizophrenic delusions, suffering from recurring amnesia based on traumatic repression leading to outbursts of antisocial and violent behavior. Knight to king seven. Check.
Emma Peel:
Is that really what you think of me?
John Steed:
Well... just my type, Mrs. Peel.
Sir August de Wynter:
Weather is no longer in God's hands but in mine.
John Steed:
Mrs. Peel, you're needed.
Father:
Hello, Mrs. Peel, welcome back to The Ministry. Now we're going to have a talk.
Emma Peel:
About the weather, how topical!
Father:
It'll help pass the time.
Emma Peel:
Time would pass anyway if you think about it logically! But then so few do think logically, or even anti-logically. Clockwise or anti-clockwise, tick-toc, toc-tick, see-saw, Margery Daw. It amounts to the same thing! After all how do you know I'm the real Mrs Peel?
Father:
How real do you feel, Mrs. Peel?
Emma Peel:
I'll repeat the question, bypassing the weather, which, no doubt, being British, we'll return to in a moment. Do I walk like Mrs Peel, talk like Mrs Peel? Am I witty, wise, wonderful to know? Or, do I go around shooting Ministry agents, attempting to rule the world on my days off?
Father:
Now you're just playing games!
Emma Peel:
How now, brown cow.
Sir August de Wynter:
Rain or shine, all is mine!
Emma Peel:
I suppose Mother warned you about women like me?
John Steed:
Until now, I didn't know there were women like you.
[
repeated line]
John Steed, Emma Peel:
Tea?
[
last lines]
Mother:
[
raising champagne glass] A toast; to a job well done.
Emma Peel:
To a narrow escape.
Mother:
Macaroon?
Emma Peel:
[
shaking her head to Mother,] Thank you, Steed.
John Steed:
No, no. Thank you, Mrs. Peel.
[
All drink champagne as camera zooms off roof top]
Alice:
[
holding a submachine gun, to Steed and Emma Peel] Would you please be so kind as to hit the ground, if it's not too much trouble?
[
Fires submachine gun, kills the bad guy]
Alice:
I hope he was a baddie.
Bailey:
Oh, fuck!
Alice:
He says unless we accept his demands, the weather will keep getting colder and colder until we'll all have to go to hell just to warm up.
Sir August de Wynter:
[
addressing the world leaders] Now is the winter of your discontent!
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