“Mice? Fine. Flying mice? Not so fine.”

“Now listen, we need to be quiet as mice. No, quieter than that. As quiet as . . . as . . .” “Dead mice?” Reynie suggested. “Perfect,” said Kate with an approving nod. “As quiet as dead mice.”

“What birds were they? (...) He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice be- hind the wainscot : a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools. ”

“We live in an age when the mice are hunting the cats...nobody knows who are the mice and who the cats.”

“Why so scrawny, cat?Starving for fat fish or mice...Or backyard love?”

“The cat in gloves catches no mice.”