cuando entré en su habitación estaba llorando... No pertenecíamos a la misma clase social, pero al menos estabamos en la misma cama

When I went back to her room she was crying. We were not in the same social class but at least we were in the same bed.

How bizarre, curious, strange! Then, madam, we live in the same room and we sleep in the same bed, dear lady. It is perhaps there that we have met!

Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared this same room for some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell. (...)

two people can sleep in the same bed and still be alone when they close their eyes

We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat.

I like sleeping. (after a pause) You were conceived in this bed.

In bed we laugh, in bed we cry;
And, born in bed, in bed we die.
The near approach a bed may show
Of human bliss to human woe.

In the biggest and the smallest I sleep but at the same place I stay.

When I am near the end of a book, I have to sleep in the same room with it.

She goes into her room and disappears. Before I went to the war we slept in the same bed. We used to lie down side by side, so as to be annihilated in unconsciousness, or to go and dream somewhere else. Commonplace life has shipwrecks worse than in Shakespearean dramas. For man and wife — to sleep, to die.) But since I came back we separate ourselves with a wall.

It was I who shared Cruso's bed and closed Cruso's eyes.

We Are All in the Same Boat.

I said, “It just seems weird that I’m in bed with somebody I’ve never met.”
As I said it I realized how foolish it was. Anytime you’re in bed with somebody, you’re in bed with everybody who came before you—everybody who hurt them, healed them, shaped them. All those ghosts are in the room.