From My Best Friend's Wedding
The misery, the exquisite tragedy. The Susan Hayward of it all. I can just picture you there, sitting alone at your table in your lavender gown.
Did I tell you my gown was lavender?
Hair swept up. Haven't touched your cake. Probably drumming your fingernails on the white linen tablecloth, the way you do when you're really feeling down. Perhaps looking at those nails thinking: 'God, I should have stopped in all my evil plotting to have that manicure, but it's too late now.
George, I didn't tell you my dress was lavender.