Madame Lefoux accepted a cup of tea and sat on another little settee, next to the relocated calico cat. The cat clearly believed Madame Lefoux was there to provide chin scratches. Madame Lefoux provided.

Cats were not, in her experience, an animal with much soul. Prosaic, practical little creatures as a general rule. It would suit her very well to be thought catlike.

Sophronia and Dimity took a vacant love seat at the front, Sophronia dislodging a large, fluffy cat with a scrunched-up face. The cat gave her a disgusted look. Or seemed to; it was hard to tell with that face.

I do hold very strongly that tea is better in England. There's something in the milk. They must have special cows.

No, Lord Maccon was riproaring, tumble down, without a doubt, pickled beyond the gherkin.

Chasing ghosts while pursued by daemons...