Rose: Oh, Dorothy.
Blanche: Oh, you're beautiful.
Sophia: Oh, pussycat, look at you. But to tell you the truth, I was hoping you'd use my wedding dress.
Dorothy: That's nice, Ma. As what? A hand puppet?

Dorothy: Look, Lucas, no offense, but hardware doesn't sound terribly romantic. So when you come by tomorrow, why don't you tell Blanche that you took me to hear the Emerson String Quartet?
Lucas: I love it. Do you think they might buy that afterwards we frolicked in the ocean?
Dorothy: Oh, gosh, I haven't frolicked since... Uh, well, since... Since the day I dropped my mother off at Shady Pines. Coincidentally, that was the last time I did a cartwheel. It was a good day.

Blanche: Well, all right, Rose, how does it make you feel?
Rose: To be honest, a little bit like Mr. Snuffles.
Sophia: Blanche, would you mind? You're closer to the knife drawer.
Rose: One summer, when I was a little girl, Henrietta, our pig, gave birth to a litter of six. And the next day, my father won the annual St. Olaf watermelon-seed spitting contest and he brought home a prize piglet.
Blanche: Mr. Snuffles.
Rose: Exactly.
Sophia: You're listening?
Rose: Anyway, I loved Mr. Snuffles. I watched him grow. I suffered with him. The way Henrietta's brood made him feel like such an outsider. It was an awful thing to see.
Sophia: Hey, hearing it is no walk in the park.
Rose: Mr. Snuffles never did get over his feeling of alienation. He grew fat and despondent. The last report we had on him, he stowed away in a truck to Chicago and tearfully surrendered himself to the Oscar Mayer people. I don't want that to happen to me, Sophia.