Ann Grayle: Sometimes I hate men. ALL men. Old men, young men... beautiful young men who use rosewater and... almost heels who are private detectives.
Helen Grayle: Oh, I'm sorry, darling, I couldn't help laughing; but you should know by now that men play rough. They soften you up, throw you off guard, and then belt you one.
Helen Grayle: That was a dirty trick; but maybe it'll teach you not to overplay a good hand. Now she doesn't like you. She hates men.
Ann Grayle: That was only the first half of the speech. The rest of it goes like this: I hate their women, too - especially the "big league blondes". Beautiful, expensive babes who know what they've got... all bubble bath, and dewy morning, and moonlight. And inside: blue steel, cold - cold like that... only not that clean.
Helen Grayle: Your slip shows, dear.