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[The clock chimes midnight] Leon: Do you hear that? Ninotchka: It's twelve o'clock. Leon: It's midnight. Look at the clock. One hand has met the other hand. They kiss. Isn't that wonderful? Ninotchka: That's the way a clock works. What's wonderful about it? Leon: Ninotchka, it's midnight. One half of Paris is making love to the other half. Ninotchka: You merely feel you must put yourself in a romantic mood to add to your exhilaration. Leon: I can't possibly think of any better reason. Ninotchka: That's false sentimentality. Leon: Oh, you analyze everything out of existence. You'd analyze me out of existence but I won't let you. Love isn't so simple, Ninotchka. Ninotchka, why do doves bill and coo? Why do snails, the coldest of all creatures, circle interminably around each other? Why do moths fly hundreds of miles to find their mates? Why do flowers slowly open their petals? Oh, Ninotchka, Ninotchka, surely you feel some slight symptom of the divine passion? A general warmth in the palms of your hands, a strange heaviness in your limbs, a burning of the lips that isn't thirst but something a thousand times more tantalizing, more exulting, than thirst? Ninotchka: You are very talkative. [He kisses her] Leon: Was that talkative? Ninotchka: No, that was restful. Again. [After being encouraged, Leon kisses her again] Thank you. Leon: Oh, my barbaric Ninotchka. My impossible, unromantic, statistical - [She takes charge and kisses him back] Again.

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