Blanche: He could end it with a poem.
Dorothy: He did that last time.
Blanche: No, it's been two or three letters since he wrote a poem.
Dorothy: He doesn't write poems, Blanche. We write poems. Actually, Lord Byron writes poems. We just copy them onto loose-leaf paper.
Blanche: In cleverly disguised handwriting, I might add.
Dorothy: I don't know why I let you talk me into this? I mean, it is out of control, we have to tell Rose the truth.
Blanche: Oh, we can't. It would crush her.
Dorothy: Then it's time to ship Isaac Newton to Saskatchewan.
Blanche: Dorothy, you can't send a citrus farmer to Saskatchewan. How's he going to make a living?
Dorothy: Excuse me. Next time we invent a person, let's make sure that he has a trade that travels.