Nobody Knows Anything.

I Love You. Okay? Want It Louder? I Love You. Spell It Out, Should I? I Ell-oh-vee-ee Why-oh-you. Want It Backward? You Love I.

The First Morning After Westley's Departure, Buttercup Thought She Was Entitled To Do Nothing More Than Sit Around Moping And Feeling Sorry For Herself. After All, The Love Of Her Life Had Fled, Life Had No Meaning, How Could You Face The Future, Et Cetera, Et Cetera.

I Can't Keep My Head Above Water One Minute To The Next: It's Not Just The Parties And The Goo-gooing With What's-her-name, I've Got The Decide How Long The Five Hundredth Anniversary Parade Is Going To Be And Where Does It Start And When Does It Start And Which Nobleman Gets To March In Front Of Which Other Nobleman So That Everyone's Still Speaking To Me At The End Of It, Plus I've Got A Wife To Murder And A Country To Frame For It, Plus I've Got To Get The War Going Once That's All Happened, And All This Is Stuff I've Got To Do Myself. Here's What It All Comes Down To: I'm Just Swamped, Ty.

This Is My Favorite Book In All The World, Though I Have Never Read It.

Good Night, Westley. Good Work. Sleep Well. I'll Most Likely Kill You In The Morning.