Now listen, we need to be quiet as mice. No, quieter than that. As quiet as...as..." "Dead mice?" Reynie suggested. "Perfect," said Kate with an approving nod. "As quiet as dead mice.

If you like to tell stories and compose sentences, and if you work hard at being good at these things, then you are a writer even if you haven't published anything.

And please don't call me that." I didn't call you 'that', I called you George Washington.

Oh dear,"cried Rhonda just then, for Mr. Benedict, awash in strong emotion, has gone to sleep.with a sudden loud snore he toppled forward into the attentive arms of Rhonda and Number Two, who eased him to the floor. "What's wrong with him?" Constance asked. "He has narcolepsy," said Kate. "He steals a lot?" "That's kleptomania," Sticky said. "Mr. Benedict sleeps a lot.

Nicholas Benedict did have an exceptional gift for knowing things (more exceptional, in fact, than most adults would have thought possible), and yet not even he could know that this next chapter was to be the most unusual-and most important-of his entire childhood. Indeed, the strange days that lay ahead would change him forever, though for now they had less substance than the mist through which he ran.

Au contraire..." "What?" Constance demanded. Curtain blinked. ~ The Perilous Journey

Was it worse for him, Reynie wondered, to have felt loved and then rejected? Or was it worse to have always felt alone?