Marion Ravenwood

— You're not the man I knew ten years ago.
— It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.

— Indiana Jones. Always knew, someday, you'd come walking back through my door. I never doubted that. Something made it inevitable. So, what are you doing here in Nepal?
— I need one of the pieces your father collected.
— I learnt to hate you in the last ten years.
— I never meant to hurt you.
— I was a child. I was in love. It was wrong and you knew it.
— You knew what you were doing.
— Now I do. This is my place. Get out.
— I did what I did. You don't have to be happy about it, but maybe we could help each other out now. I need one of the pieces your father collected. Bronze piece, about this size, with a hole in it, off-centre, with a crystal. You know the one I mean?
— Yeah. I know it.
— Where's Abner?
— Where's Abner? Abner's dead.
— Marion, I'm sorry.
— Do you know what you did to me, to my life?
— I can only say I'm sorry so many times.
— Well, say it again, anyway.
— Sorry.
— Yeah, everybody's sorry. Abner was sorry for dragging me all over this earth looking for his little bits of junk. I'm sorry to still be stuck in this dive.
— Everybody's sorry for something.

— Well, Jones, at least you haven't forgotten how to show a lady a good time.
— Boy, you're something.
— Yeah, I'll tell you what. Until I get back my $5,000, you're going to get more than you bargained for. I'm your goddamn partner.

— If you're trying to escape on foot, the desert is three weeks in every direction, so please, eat something. I must apologise for their treatment of you. Yeah. Whose idea was it?
— No food, no water. What kind of people are these friends of yours?
— At this particular time and place, to do my work, they are necessary evils. They're not my friends. However, with the right connections, even in this part of the world, we are not entirely uncivilised.