If wits were pins, the man would be a veritable hedgehog.

My dear fellow," he continued more soberly, "If you have managed to complicate things by forming a sentimental attachment in less than a week, then I doubt there is anything I can do for you. You, sir, are a romantic, and I suspect your condition is incurable.

If wits were pins, the man would be a veritable hedgehog.

It was hopeless. She was flawless. She was a sunbeam. Mosca gave up and got on with hating her.

I want my chirfugging goose back!

Mosca said nothing. The word ‘damsel’ rankled with her. She suddenly thought of the clawed girl from the night before, jumping the filch on an icy street. Much the same age and build as Beamabeth, and far more beleaguered. What made a girl a ‘damsel in distress’? Were they not allowed claws? Mosca had a hunch that if all damsels had claws they would spend a lot less time ‘in distress’.

Tea is the magic key to the vault where my brain is kept.