“Oh,Angus, where's the beef?”

“Oh dear. I have just seen Angus hunkering down in the long grass. He's stalking their poodle. I'll have to intervene to avert a massacre. Oh, it's OK, Mrs. Next Door has thrown a brick at him.”

“Beef. Yes. Roast beef. It's the Swedish term for beef that is roasted.”

“Oh Angus,” she moaned. “Can’t you just use your…you know…your powers to clean this up?” Angus was walking to the kitchen, wiping his face with a napkin. He laughed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?” he asked. “‘Mess: Clean yourself up!’ ‘Floor, sweep yourself and be quick about it! Anne Commands!’ No, Darling, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that! Not like that at all!”

“Hamish's right arm was around Angus's waist as the two of them tangoed past.”

“Angus...had hitherto maintained hilarious ease from motives of mental hygiene...”