I Don't Think About The End Game.

Rings Try To Find Their Way Back To Their Owner. Someone Ought To Write A Book About It.

Child. That Was A Terrible Thing To Say To Anyone Who Was Almost Thirteen.

You've Got A Lot Of Time For Abstract Thought When You've Got Your Hand Stuck Up A Dead Badger.

Watching A Dog Try To Chew A Large Piece Of Toffee Is A Pastime Fit For Gods. Mr. Fusspot's Mixed Ancestry Had Given Him A Dexterity Of Jaw That Was Truly Awesome. He Somersaulted Happily Around The Floor, Making Faces Like A Rubber Gargoyle In A Washing Machine.

Vimes Stalked Gloomily Through The Crowded Streets, Feeling Like The Only Pickled Onion In A Fruit Salad.