Your slip shows, dear.

Ann Grayle:

[to private detective Philip Marlowe]
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:
[hidden in the shadows, laughs - then she comes out]
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:
[to Marlowe]
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. [Ann runs out of the beach house]