[H]ow could she have known that Harry had written in his notebook, shortly before he encountered her comely, esculent self, Better that her neck should bear the traces of my loving teeth? Better than what? One is afraid to ask.
Better that her neck should bear the traces of my loving teeth
It was five miles or more from Maggot's lane to the Ferry. The hobbits wrapped themselves up, but their ears were strained for any sound above the creak of the wheels and the slow clop of the ponies' hoofs. The waggon seemed slower than a snail to Frodo.
“Now, that's a good question, and I'm glad to answer it,” Potter said. “The fact is that it occurred to me there might be a pigeon somewhere round here that was thinking of taking a flutter.
—Do you feel like going out tonight? —Eh, I don't know.
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