— I believe you are blushing, Mr. Big Artiste. I can't imagine Monsieur Monet blushing.
— He does landscapes.
— I'm Jack Dawson.
— Rose DeWitt Bukater.
— I'll have to get you to write that one down.
— I love you, Jack.
— Don't you do that. Don't you say your good-byes. Not yet. Do you understand me?
— I'm so cold.
— Listen, Rose... you're gonna get out of here. You're gonna go on... and you're gonna make lots of babies. And you're gonna watch them grow. You're gonna die an old lady...warm in her bed. Not here. Not this night. Not like this. Do you understand me?
I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one even looks up.
— Promise me you'll survive. That you won't give up, no matter what happens, no matter how hopeless. Promise me now, Rose, and never let go of that promise.
— I'll never let go, Jack.
— You're so stupid, Rose! Why did you do that? Why?!
— You jump, I jump, right?
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