You mind your tongue!” “Oh, I do,” I said. “I sharpen it every evening on your name.

Actually, it would be assumed that the young lady had no such impulses at all, but I’ll tell you something: Chocolate melts on my tongue too.

Father sighed. “Please spare me these arguments of yours.” “Whose arguments should I use?

Secrets press inside a person. They press the way water presses at a dam. The secrets and the water, they both want to get out.

If you don't argue, you can't give in.

Witches don’t look like anything. Witches are. Witches do.

Let’s hope she’s like the others, who look only at the surface. Let’s hope she’d never think that a girl with black-velvet eyes and cut-glass cheekbones could be a witch.