Thomas Fairchild: He's still David Larrabee, and you're still the chauffeur's daughter, and you're still reaching for the moon.
Sabrina Fairchild: No, father. The moon's reaching for ME.
Thomas Fairchild: May I ask, sir, what exactly are your intentions?
Linus Larrabee: My intentions? Unethical, reprehensible but very practical.
Thomas Fairchild: I beg your pardon?
Thomas Fairchild: I like to think of life as a limousine. Though we are all riding together, we must remember our places. There's a front seat and a back seat and a window in between.
Linus Larrabee: Fairchild, I never realised it before, but you're a terrible snob.
Thomas Fairchild: Yes, sir.
Sabrina Fairchild: Just imagine, you press a button and factories go up, or you pick up a telephone and a hundred tankers set out for Persia, or you switch on the dictaphone and say, "Buy all of Cleveland and move it to Pittsburgh."
Oliver Larrabee: Now, I'm not saying that all Larrabees have been saints. There was a Thomas Larrabee who was hung for piracy, and there was a Benjamin Larrabee who was a slave trader, and there was my great-great uncle, Joshua Larrabee, who was shot in Indiana while attempting to rob a train, but there never was a Larrabee who behaved as David Larrabee has behaved here tonight.
David Larrabee: And exactly what have I done?
Thomas Fairchild: It wouldn't have worked out really, darling. The papers and everybody else would've said how fine and democratic for a Larrabee to marry a chauffeur's daughter, but would they praise the chauffeur's daughter? No. Democracy can be a wickedly unfair thing, Sabrina. Nobody poor was ever called democratic for marrying somebody rich.
Sabrina Fairchild: I hate girls that giggle all the time.
Thomas Fairchild: You hate every girl David looks at.