Greebo had spent an irritating two minutes in that box. Technically, a cat locked in a box may be alive or it may be dead. You never know until you look. In fact, the mere act of opening the box will determine the state of the cat, although in this case there were three determinate states the cat could be in: these being Alive, Dead, and Bloody Furious.
Shawn dived sideways as Greebo went off like a Claymore mine.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Magrat dreamily, as the elf flailed at the maddened cat. ‘He’s just a big softy.’
Sorry, I just can't stop quoting this book.
The kings of Lancre had never thrown anything away. At least, they’d never thrown anything away if it was possible to kill someone with it.
There was armour for men. There was armour for horses. There was armour for fighting dogs. There was even armour for ravens, although King Gurnt the Stupid’s plan for an aerial attack force had never really got off the ground.
Oh, a duel! A duel!
‘No good making an entrance if everyone isn’t there to see you, is it? That’s headology.’
In fact the young coven arrived at twenty past twelve, and took up station on the steps of the market pentangle on the other side of the square.
‘Look at ’em,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘All in black, again.’
‘Well, we wear black too,’ said Nanny Ogg the reasonable.
I'm loving this book, btw.
And there was this, too:
Nanny Ogg, on the other hand, was instant putty in the hands of any grandchild, even one as sticky as Pewsey.
‘Want sweetie,’ growled Pewsey, in that curiously deep voice some young children have. ‘Just in a moment, my duck, I’m talking to the lady,’ Nanny Ogg fluted.
‘Want sweetie now.’
‘Bugger off, my precious, Nana’s busy right this minute.’
Pewsey pulled hard on Nanny Ogg’s skirts. ‘Now sweetie now!’
Granny Weatherwax leaned down until her impressive nose was about level with Pewsey’s gushing one.
‘If you don’t go away,’ she said gravely, ‘I will personally rip your head off and fill it with snakes.’
‘There!’ said Nanny Ogg. ‘There’s lots of poor children in Klatch that’d be grateful for a curse like that.’
Pewsey’s little face, after a second or two of uncertainty, split into a pumpkin grin.
‘Funny lady,’ he said.
‘Tell you what,’ said Nanny, patting Pewsey on the head and then absent-mindedly wiping her hand on her dress, ‘you see them young ladies on the other side of the square? They’ve got lots of sweeties.’
Pewsey waddled off.
‘That’s germ warfare, that is,’ said Granny Weatherwax.
Detective Work - Witches Style:
‘There’s been things going on,’ she said, in a cold and deliberate tone.
‘All the bracken and weeds is trampled around the stones. I reckon someone’s been dancing.’
Nanny Ogg gave this the same consideration as would a nuclear physicist who’d just been told that someone was banging two bits of sub-critical uranium together to keep warm. ‘They never,’ she said.
‘They have. And another thing …’
It was hard to imagine what other thing there could be, but Nanny Ogg said ‘Yes?’ anyway. ‘Someone got killed up here,’
‘Oh, no,’ moaned Nanny Ogg.
‘Not inside the circle too.’
‘Nope. Don’t be daft. It was outside. A tall man. He had one leg longer’n the other. And a beard. He was probably a hunter.’
‘How’d you know all that?’
‘I just trod on ’im.’
The sun rose through the mists.