he rushed off to tell her before he should forget it.
“Ah, but this mouse had a poetic licence.”
“Look it up.”
“I will.”
The book was taken from within two inches of where he sat.
“‘Shrieked’ it is.”
It amused him vastly, for he had never shrieked in his life.
“Do you like mice?” It was the first voice speaking again.
“Hate them—smelly little things.”