And Islington said nothing, but it smiled, in the manner of a cat who has not only devoured the cream and the canary, but also the chicken you were saving for dinner, and the crème brûlée that would have been dessert.

Neil Gaiman (b. 1960) British fabulist
Neverwhere, ch. 17 (1996)

Added on 20-Feb-09 | Last updated 15-Dec-09
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