Dr. Frankenstein Damn your eyes!
Igor (pointing at his lazy eye) Too late!

Dr. Frankenstein:: Igor, would you give me a hand with the bags?
Igor:: [doing a Groucho Marx] Certainly, you take the blonde and I'll take the one in the turban.

Victor Frankenstein and his creation perish, of course; his “Adam” is as doomed as he is. If this monster cannot be saved by his father/creator, however, today’s cyborg/robot/Artificial Intelligence products do expect to be saved. For those at the forefront of technological innovation today, there will be no return to a previous, monster-free state.

Inigo limped out of training but it was a precautionary limp out.

Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them forever.

Where do they go when they walk out and leave the body behind?

Then, because it was every cinematic doctor's exit line, the doctor added, "I'll see myself out."

"I think that I had better go, Holmes."
"Not a bit, doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell."

You do not quite get what I mean. Herr Frankenstein was interested only in human life. First to destroy it, then recreate it. There you have his mad dream.

In the way this strange gentleman was going on, he would leave the world without having done any good to himself or anybody else.

What could Dr. Slop do? — he crossed himself + — Pugh! — but the doctor, Sir, was a Papist. — No matter; he had better have kept hold of the pummel. — He had so; — nay, as it happened, he had better have done nothing at all; for in crossing himself he let go his whip, — and in attempting to save his whip betwixt his knee and his saddle’s skirt, as it slipped, he lost his stirrup, — in losing which he lost his seat; — and in the multitude of all these losses (which, by the bye, shews what little advantage there is in crossing) the unfortunate doctor lost his presence of mind. So that without waiting for Obadiah’s onset, he left his pony to its destiny, tumbling off it diagonally, something in the stile and manner of a pack of wool, and without any other consequence from the fall, save that of being left (as it would have been) with the broadest part of him sunk about twelve inches deep in the mire.

God has taken away the greatest man of his generation, for Dr. Livingstone stood alone.

I turn my back and walk away

A brilliant reaction. I hate it when players just walk off. [Following Arjen Robben's sharp exit down the tunnel after being substituted against Aston Villa.]