Margaret: I think that dress hikes up a little.
Dinah: No, it’s me that does.
Sidney Kidd: You hate me, I trust, Miss Imbrie.
Elizabeth Imbrie: No, I can’t afford to hate anybody. I’m only a photographer.
Tracy: The time to make up your mind about people…is never.
Macaulay Connor: Look, who’s doing the interviewing here?
Elizabeth Imbrie: Do you think she’s onto us?
Macaulay Connor: No, she was born like that, don’t let it throw you.
Elizabeth Imbrie: Do you want to take over?
Macaulay Connor: I want to go home!
Tracy: I’m going crazy. I’m standing here solidly on my own two hands and going crazy.
Connor: Oh Tracy darling…
Connor: What can I say to you? Tell me darling.
Tracy: Not anything – don’t say anything. And especially not “darling.”
Connor: It can’t be anything like love, can it?
Tracy: No, no, it can’t be.
Connor: Would it be inconvenient?
Connor: Hello you.
Connor: You look fine.
Tracy: I feel fine.
Margaret: The course of true love…
Connor: …gathers no moss.
Liz: What’s this room? I’ve forgotten my compass.
Connor: I’d say, north-by-northwest parlor-by-living-room.
Connor: This is the Bridal Suite. Send us up some caviar sandwiches and a bottle of beer.
Margaret: Who is this?
Connor: This is the Voice of Doom calling. Your days are numbered, to the seventh son of the seventh son!
Connor: Doggone it, C.K. Dexter Haven! Either I’m gonna sock you or you’re gonna sock me.
Dexter: Shall we toss a coin?
Dexter: Be whatever you want – you’re my redhead.
Dexter: Do you suppose, sir, speaking of eye-openers…?
Uncle Willie: Oh, that’s the first sane remark I’ve heard today. Come along, Dexter, I know a formula that’s said to pop the pennies off the eyelids of dead Irishmen.
Connor: I’m testing the air. I like it but it doesn’t like me.
Dexter: I thought all writers drank to excess and beat their wives. You know, at one time I secretly wanted to be a writer.
Margaret: We both might face the facts that neither of us has proved to be a very great success as a wife.
Tracy: We just picked the wrong first husband.
Tracy Lord: These stories are beautiful. Why, Mike, they’re almost poetry.
Macaulay Connor: Don’t kid yourself, they are.