“From the window, above the clatter of pots and the slamming of cabinets, Francis was singing, as though it was the happiest song in the world: 'We are the little black sheep who have gone astray . . . Baa baa baa . . . Gentlemen songsters off on a spree . . . Doomed from here to eternity . . .”

“Gentlemen-rankers out on the spreeDamned from here to Eternity,God ha' mercy on such as we, Baa! Yah! Bah!”

“Wild inside; raging,writhing—yes, "writhing" was the word, writhing with desire. Butoutwardly he was hopelessly tame; outwardly—baa, baa, baa.”

“There is no heroism in sheep. They stand on the hill and go “Baa”, as they’re being slaughtered.”

“If you don't want my services, then it's only fair you cut me loose so I can make another girl or two happy this summer. Or three.” He shifts my papers into a neater pile. “What will they do once I take you off the market?” I ask. “I can only imagine the poor girls wandering around like a lost herd of sheep all summer, wondering where you went.” I risk another glance at the staring girls and shudder. “Do they even blink? Baa. Baa. Baa.”

“Well, you certainly are the most wonderfully woolly baa-lamb that ever stepped.”