It's no good choosing your first husband from a school for evil geniuses. Much too difficult to kill.

Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once -- and only once, mind you -- he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.

But we were talking about me and my problems." Sophronia looked Monique up and down gravely. "I don't think we're going to solve those in the space of one carriage ride.

Alexia gave in to his demanding touch, but only, of course, because he sounded so pathetic. It had nothing, whatsoever to do with her own quickening heartbeat.

Mrs. Loontwill did what any well-prepared mother would do upon finding her unmarried daughter in the arms of a gentleman werewolf: she had very decorous, and extremely loud, hysterics.

Lord Maccon, being Lord Maccon and good at such things, then changed, right there in the Thames, from dog-paddling wolf to large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under the water. Professor Lyall suspected him of practicing such maneuvers in the bathtub.

The Gamma paused. “You have a crazed werewolf in your wine cellar?” “You can think of a better place to stash him?” “What about the wine?