Blanche: You know, Dorothy, I think maybe you're being too hard on her. I know how difficult buyin' shoes can be. Sometimes you get yourself a really good-looking salesman and you try to pretend you don't notice his hands caressing your calf as he tries to keep his mind on shoes, but all the time he's thinking, "Dare I peek? Dare I look more? Dare I look where no eyes have looked before?" And then, as he kneels there before you, little beads of perspiration breakin' out on his forehead, his breath comin' shorter and quicker, he ever so gently slips the supple leather on your quivering foot, and you achieve a perfect fit. Come on, old woman, we need shoes now!

Blanche: Sophia, there's somethin' I don't understand. Now, you're always a bit ornery, unpleasant, impolite, even downright mean. That's part of your charm.
Sophia: Thank you, you bed-hopping relic. [Blanche pops Sophia's balloon]

Dorothy: Ma, you wear those shoes because they're the only shoes you say you can wear. Whenever we get you other shoes, you say they're uncomfortable.
Sophia: I'm cursed with these square feet. When I was a girl in Sicily, we were too poor for shoes, so I wore olive oil cans.