Joseph W. Randall: God gives us heartache and the devil gives us whiskey.
Joseph W. Randall: Now you listen to me, Hinchecliffe. It'll be for the last time. I'm through with your dirty rag, and I'm through with you. Oh, I'm not ducking any of the blame for this thing. You thought of the murder and I committed it. But I did it for smaller profit. For wages. You did for circulation.
Bernard Hinchecliffe: You must be mad.
Joseph W. Randall: Mad. Yes I am. All my life I'll be mad. Because all my life I'll be seeing Nancy Voorhee's daughter standing there. And asking me why I killed her mother. And I want you, Hinchecliffe, to enjoy the picture with me. I want you to wake up in the night and see your own squashed, putrid little soul. I want you know that every human being that works for you knows what a diseased hypocrite you are. We all know what you are! But we take your money and do your work, because we're afraid to starve. You'll have my resignation and release of my contact on your desk immediately.
Bernard Hinchecliffe: But Randell, don't be hasty.
Joseph W. Randall: Get out. Get out!
Joseph W. Randall: By the way, did you see Isopod?
Kitty Carmody: Not lately. Say, Mr. Randall, I don't bark assignments, but I don't like workin' with that guy.
Joseph W. Randall: Well, what's the matter?
Kitty Carmody: Well, I rode uptown in a taxi with him, and I don't have any skin left on my knees.
Joseph W. Randall: What were you two doing? Kneeling in prayer?
Kitty Carmody: He was doin' the kneelin'. I darn well almost went out of the cab.
Joseph W. Randall: [laughs]
Miss Taylor: I think you can always get people interested in the crucifixion of a woman.
Joseph W. Randall: I've been here three hours and not a member of my staff's been here. No wonder the paper is rotten. We need more drunkards.
Ziggie Feinstein: [Pointing his finger at her] Say, on the level, don't you know where the boss is?
Miss Taylor: [Sticking her finger in his stomach] On the level, I don't, but you might try Corcoran's or maybe you've been thrown out of that speakeasy.
Ziggie Feinstein: They don't throw you out of speakeasies... they carry you out!
Phillip Weeks: [Confronting the creeps at the newspaper - Hinchecliffe, Randall, Isopod - whose sensationalistic tabloid journalism destroyed his wife's parents] You needn't be frightened. There won't be any more murders. And it won't do any good to tell you what you've done. You'll go on hunting down little, unimportant people who can't fight back. You'll go on with your filthy newspaper pulling the clothing off women and selling their naked souls for two cents. You've grown rich on filth - and no one's ever dared rise up and crush you out.
Phillip Weeks: But remember this: if you ever mention my wife's name in your rotten paper again, I'll hunt you down and kill you!
Kitty Carmody: Mr. Hinchecliffe says there's an opening for me on the staff. He thinks I might take the job of some girl that was just let out.
Miss Taylor: [sarcasm] Good heavens, don't they even let the corpse get cold?
Kitty Carmody: Mr. Hinchecliffe seemed to *like* me very much.
Kitty Carmody: [Miss Taylor gives her a look] What I meant about Mr. Hinchecliffe is, that he knows that I've had a *lot* of experience in Chicago.
Miss Taylor: [sarcasm] Yeah... you look it.
Joseph W. Randall: [talking to Jerry the bartender] Jerry, what do people do who are in trouble and haven't any money to buy liquor? There must be lots of 'em in the world.
Joseph W. Randall: Now, you listen to me, Hinchecliffe.It'll be for the last time. I'm through with your dirty rag, and I'm through with you! Oh, I'm not ducking any of the blame for this thing. You thought up the murder, and I committed it. But I did it for smaller profit, for wages. *You* did it for circulation.
Bernard Hinchecliffe: You must be mad!
Joseph W. Randall: Mad? Yes, I am. All my life I'll be mad. Because all my life I'll be seeing Nancy Voorhees daughter standing there, and asking me why I killed her mother.
Joseph W. Randall: [glaring and pointing at Hinchecliffe's face] And I want you, Hinchecliffe, to enjoy the picture with me. I want you to wake up in the night and see your own squashy, putrid little soul. I want you to know that every human being that works for you knows what a diseased hypocrite you are. We ALL know what you are, but we take your money and do your work because we're afraid to starve!
Joseph W. Randall: You'll have my resignation and release of contract on your desk immediately.
Mrs. Isobel Weeks: We have just told this girl, that this wedding must be indefinitely postponed.
Phillip Weeks: [taken aback; confronts his mother] "We"? Just who are "we"?
Arthur Weeks: Phillip, I don't like your tone!
Phillip Weeks: I don't mean to be rude, but when it comes to my marriage, I'll settle that myself.
Arthur Weeks: I don't like to make threats, but unless you listen to reason, I'll...
Phillip Weeks: ...you'll disinherit me, I suppose. Well, go ahead and do it.
Phillip Weeks: [to his mother] You were willing yesterday for me to marry Jenny, and she's the same girl today as she was then. It's just your stinking snobbery that's changed your minds!
Mrs. Isobel Weeks: Phillip, don't be crude. I *will not* take into my family the daughter of a murderess.
Phillip Weeks: [glares at her] I think you're the coldest, most brutal woman I've ever known.
Arthur Weeks: [slaps Phillip across the face; gestures to his wife for them to leave] Come now.
Bernard Hinchecliffe: Now, Mr. French, here are the latest circulation figures: 302,000 on Monday, 301,000 on Tuesday, and 306,000 on Wednesday. That's 20,000 behind our figures for last year.
French: Well, Mr. Hinchecliffe, you know what weather we've been having!
Bernard Hinchecliffe: Yes, Mr. French: the same kind of weather they're having at the other papers!
Joseph W. Randall: You think this Voorhees story is a pretty filthy mess, don't you?
Miss Taylor: I think that woman's suffered enough... Can't you see what this might do to her family? Oh, you oughta' be ashamed of yourself.
Joseph W. Randall: No, I been in this game too long to be ashamed of myself. I'm gonna' be *one* newspaperman that gets out of this business with enough money to get me a decent old age.