[She] lost her patience, a thing she was all too prone to misplacing.

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.

How ghastly for her, people actually thinking, with their brains, and right next door. Oh, the travesty of it all.

Alexia had spent long hours wondering over that mustache. Werewolves did not grow hair, as they did not age. Where had it come from? Had he always had it? For how many centuries had his poor abused upper lip labored under the burden of such vegetation?

Lord Maccon reflected upon the state of his life wherein he had somehow gained a spouse who could not give a pig's foot for the latest dresses out of Paris but who whined about not owning an aethographic transmitter. Well, at least the two were comparable obsessions so far as expense was concerned.

Alexia,” she hissed to her friend, “there are knees positively everywhere. What do I do?

Here, I stole it for you. Why don’t you tell me what it’s for.” “Aw, Sophronia, how thoughtful. You brought me a present!