The Cat And The Canary Quotes

Quote is taken from Chapter 1: A decade ago when Isabel’s husband Max had died, they’d moved in together and merged their possessions. Neither sister brought any fussy teapots, canaries, sachets, or doilies, but lots of other stuff had to either stay or go. Looking at the lime green armchair gave Alma the willies. Her suggestion to slipcover it in a more subdued color had garnered Isabel’s frosty stare, and Alma had dropped the matter.

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

Personally." My mother digs a smile into the side of her cheek. "I'm rooting for Logan." Logan produces a grin that suggests he's the cat that ate the canary, and suddenly I'm feeling rather canary-ish.

Did this mean he was about to tell her something he wouldn’t normally? Her ears perked—figuratively, since her ears were now feather-covered holes in the sides of her head. He laughed softly. “You know, you are almost enjoyable to talk to, when you do not say anything back.” She willed the water in the tub to strike him in the face. There was a loud splash. “Hey!” He sounded surprised, but not unpleasantly so. “Interesting. You are still capable of elemental powers. But stop—or I will feed you to the castle cats.” She struck him again.

You look like the cat that ate the canary." "As a vegetarian, I object to that metaphor." Scout grinned teethily at me. "As a carnivore, I object to your pickines. Now spill the goods." -Scout and Lily

Then he smiled, like a cat who had just been entrusted with the keys to a home for wayward but plump canaries.

there was a certain twinkle in his eye, a knowing cat-that-ate-the-canary grin that drew me in.

She had the expression of the cat who ate the canary and then threw it up in her owner's favorite shoes.

Would you mind getting a picture of us? "Anything for one of Miss McLachlan's fans." He looks like the cat that swallowed the canary. "I take some mighty fine pictures of Miss McLachlan, if I do say so myself.

Three rabbits, two cats, three parakeets, a dove, two parrots, three turkeys, two geese, a canary, and nine ducks at last count were just about what Noah had started with, and he never brought his animals into the house.

My answer provided me with the first smile I’d seen on William’s face. It was more a grin, a cat-catches-the-canary kind of grin that froze me in place. Had I been more intuitive then, I would’ve known of the things to come.

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlor firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

Love? Yes. Gideon chuckled. Why did you say yes like that? Oh, I thought you were asking me a question. I see. Then he truly did see what she meant, and his heart flipped over in his chest. Darling? Gideon smiled at the warmth the endearment flooded him with. Yes, Neliss? Oh, nothing. Just fulfilling my end of the deal. The deal? Yes. You made me a deal. You lost me, he sighed. Legna lifted her head, propped an elbow up against the pillow of his chest, and settled her chin in her palm so she could look down at him. “You said that I would get something very special if I called you that.” “Did I?” he asked, his eyes brightening with speculation as he thought back on it. “Actually, I think you have that confused with the deal about saying my name.” “I like your name,” she said with a smile. “I always thought mine was awful snobbish. But yours has me beat hands down.” “My name is one of the finest and oldest names in all of our history.” “That’s only because you have lived to be such an older tosser.” “Tosser?” “British vernacular, luv.” “What are you, my dialect coach all of a sudden? Is this your idea of postcoital pillow talk?” Legna giggled, apologizing with a clinging kiss on his lips. It clearly calmed him, making him smile in a very cat-versus-canary way. “Is there something you would prefer I say?” she asked compliantly. “That yes a few sentences back was great. Short, sweet, to the point.” “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes?” he asked, arching a brow. “Oh, yes,” she assured him, her own brows doing a little lecherous dance. “Mmm, yes,” he murmured as her mouth lowered to his. Yes. Yes. Yes. Legna? Yes? Do not talk with your mouth full. No? No.

He shook his head, disgusted like. “You’re impossible. You’re not worth the effort.” I curled my fingers into the front of his T-shirt and hauled him closer. “Not even in your dreams could you imagine how impossible I can be.” We were toe to toe with my br**sts skimming his chest, our eyes locked. “I’ll drink to that,” Morelli said. The third schnapps went down smooth as silk. I gave the empty glass to Morelli and licked my lips. Morelli watched the lip licking, and his eyes darkened and his breathing slowed. Aha! I thought. This was more like it. Got him interested with the old lip-licking routine. “Shit,” Morelli said. “You did that on purpose.” I smiled. Then he smiled. It looked to me like his “gotcha” smile. Like the cat that just caught the canary. Like I’d been had…again. Then he closed the space between us, took my face in his hands and kissed me

At eight o'clock in the morning, Tom arrived at Ravenel House, dressed in a beautiful dark suit of clothes with a royal-blue four-in-hand necktie. As he entered the breakfast room and bowed, he was so obviously pleased with the entire situation that even West was moved to reluctant amusement. “I expected you to look like the cat who swallowed a canary,” West said, standing to shake Tom’s hand, “but you look more like a cat who swallowed another entire cat.

The shower turned out to be glorious once I adjusted the water to a cool enough temperature so as not to produce any steam. I washed my hair, noticing that my favorite shampoo suddenly smelled like Hades--as did my trusty facial scrub, which had so loyally saved my face from looking like the back of a lizard on the day of my wedding. Just as I was rinsing the last of the suds from my hair, Marlboro Man suddenly burst through the door of the bathroom and yelled, “Hey!” I screamed bloody murder from the startle, then screamed again because I was naked and feeling queasy and unattractive. Then I felt sick from the excitement. “Hi,” I managed, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it around myself as quickly as I could. “Gotcha,” he said, smiling the sexiest smile I’d ever seen while in such a sick state. Then he stopped and looked at me. “Are you okay?” He must have noticed the verdant glow of my skin. “I’ll be honest,” I said, making my way back to our bedroom. “It’s pretty bad. I’m going to try to get in to the doctor today and see if there’s anything he can do about it.” I fell backward onto the bed. “My ears must have been permanently damaged or something.” Marlboro Man moved toward me, looking like the cat that had just eaten the canary. “Scared you, didn’t I?” he chuckled as he wrapped his arms around my towel-cloaked body. I breathed him in, wrapping my arms around him, too. Then I shot up and raced back to the bathroom so I could throw up again.

Reading Children's Books Circa 1920 "The flea's eyebrows arched in astonishment at the sight of the cat's spanking new pajamas. The flea thought the pigeon pattern of bee's knees and canary's tusks a smidgen too much.

He smiled like a cat who’d just eaten a pet shop full of canaries,

grapefruit margarita at Colonel Teddy’s Tiki Bar on Siesta Key: Take a fresh habañero pepper, cut it in half, and then steep it in three ounces of Pueblo Viejo tequila. Next, add an ounce of freshly squeezed lime juice, an ounce of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, and then one ounce of simple syrup plus a couple handfuls of crushed ice. Cover and shake it for no less than thirty seconds and then immediately pour it, ice and all, into a mason jar with a salted rim, garnished with a wedge of key lime or meyer lemon or both.

freshly

Got any nachos left?" I was suddenly starving. "Sorry," Vanilla Joe said. "Served them all." He smiled like the cat eating the canary. "I didn't have any left over. It was lucky I'd made extras. So sad I didn't get a snack afterward." "Epic humblebrag, Vanilla Joe," I said.

My own suggestion is that the moral status of the embryo, the fetus, and indeed any individual is determined by its possession of those features which make you or me morally more important than cats or canaries. At no stage of its development does the human embryo or fetus possess features that relevantly distinguish it from cats and canaries, save two. They are species membership and potential. Species membership, however, is devoid of moral significance; species preference is, like race or gender preference, simply a prejudice. Potential is no more helpful: whatever potential is possessed by the human embryo is also possessed by the unfertilized egg and the sperm and so the argument that we have an obligation to realize human potential becomes the exhausting and unattractive ethic of maximal procreation.

You look like the cat that swallowed the canary, her mate, the babies, and the nest,” I commented,

Well, hello.” I flinch toward Libby’s voice and find her smiling like a cartoon cat whose mouth is stuffed with multiple canaries.

Asa looked up, drawing a deep breath, and saw that his harpy wasn't amused by his laughter. "I don't think why you find the thought of me helping with your books so funny," she said in a stiff little voice. "Or, for that matter, letting me paint you." Her mouth- the only soft part of her, as far as he could tell- trembled a bit. Well, he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings. "Don't worry about it, luv," he said, tearing off a bite of the bread with his teeth. "You'll find out soon enough when you see my books. As for the other-" he set down the piece of bread and shrugged off his coat- "do you want to start now?" That got him a wide-eyed look, and he couldn't help but grin at her, mouth obnoxiously full, as he began unbuttoning his waistcoat. Had the lady bitten off more than she could chew? "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice high and a bit panicked. He opened his eyes in mock innocence as he yanked his shirt from his breeches. "Stop that at once." "Why?" he asked curiously, his fingers still on his lifted shirt. Her gaze darted to his bared navel and then away again like that of a sweet canary frightened by an ugly alley cat. "You said you wanted me to 'model' for you.

Not a morning person, is she?” a lazy voice drawled. Maddie dropped her hand to stare into Sam Roberts’s amused face. He sat across from Mitch, long, denim-clad legs stretched out, one hand hugging a coffee cup. Of course. What was breakfast with Mitch if not another new humiliation? This town was custom-made to put her in awkward situations. She glared at Mitch, who grinned like the cat who ate the canary. “Do you ever have breakfast alone?” He shrugged. “They’re big fans of the drop-in.” “From the looks of her, she should be in a much better mood,” Sam said, clearly entertained. Maddie crossed her arms over her breasts. She might as well be naked in her skimpy tank top and cotton shorts. “No need to be shy.” Sam winked at her. “I saw you last night, although you were considerably less rumpled.” She rolled her eyes. “Isn’t it polite to allow a girl some dignity?” “What do you mean, last night?” Mitch asked at the same time, eyes narrowed on Sam. A muscle jumped in his forearm as his fingers tightened around his mug. “Don’t even tell me that’s what you were wearing.” “I was sitting on the front porch when he came home.” She ran her hand through her disheveled hair, getting caught in the wild mass of tangles. Sam gave Mitch a sly, devious smile. “Not my fault you left her alone for just anyone to come take a peek.” Mitch’s attention snapped to Maddie. She refused to fidget under his scrutiny. One golden brow rose. Maddie huffed. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” “Hmmmm . . .” Mitch gave her a through once-over. Maddie’s chin shot up. “This is your fault, not mine!” Sam scrubbed his blond, stubbled jaw. “She’s got a point.” “I suppose she does,” Mitch said, but his tone spoke of a different story. Those amber eyes told her without words that she’d be paying later with his own delicious brand of torture. She

Madison had covered one side of the hall without success, and was just bending down to check the first locker on the other side, when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. “Looking for lunch money?” Jeremy asked. Madison’s face turned beet red. She slowly turned to look at Jeremy, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching her. “Of course not,” she said. “Lunch is over.” “Then what are you looking for?” he asked, strolling toward her. She folded her arms and stood her ground. “That’s none of your business.” “Actually, it is my business,” Jeremy replied. “That’s my locker.” “What?” Madison spun to look at the locker. There was no way she could have known. “Well, it’s not what you think. I-I’m not planning on stealing from you,” she stammered. “I’m just…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to think of a logical explanation for why she was standing alone in the hall with her hand on his locker. Jeremy leaned his shoulder against his locker and grinned. He looked like the cat who had eaten the canary. “You’re just what?” Madison gulped and looked up at the I’M STUCK ON MADISON sticker on Jeremy’s locker door. A lightbulb went on in her brain, and she tilted her chin in defiance. “I’m just removing this sticker from your locker.” She reached up and tore the decal off the locker. As she did, she spotted the phone number on the back and screamed, “I found it!” Jeremy jumped back two feet in alarm. “Could you shout a little louder?” he cracked. “I don’t think the hall monitor heard you.” “So what are you doing lurking out here?” Madison asked, cradling the sticker with Blue’s number in her hand, so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. Jeremy leaned in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.

Monster' is a relative term; to a canary, a cat is a monster. We're just used to being the cat.

I know we sort of discussed this all before, but it seemed very, just talk, back then. Like something that could maybe happen. I have so many questions. So many worries. And I feel like crying, but I also sort of want to punch you. But then at the same time, I want to take a nap." Luke bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. He felt like he might explode from his elation. "When you look at me like that, it makes me want to punch you more than nap." "Like what, babe?" "Like the cat who caught the canary. Or the cat that had sex with the canary and then got the canary pregnant.

Rats, the only creatures that seemed to flourish in the trenches, were quite brave and were often a foot long (not including the tail), the size of a small cat. They grew fat on the corpses in No Man’s Land and were known to bite sleeping soldiers’ faces and gather around the eating areas. The French left the rats alone. Like a canary in a coal mine, the rats were a warning that gas shells had been fired. At the slightest whiff of gas, the large rats flipped feet up, dead. The Americans hated them too much to leave them alone. They bludgeoned the rats with shovels and rifle butts or shot them with their side arms.

Where are you taking me?” “To town. I’m going to wire your daddy and get you a hotel room.” Her blue eyes filled with silvery stars. “You want to wire Daddy so you can ask for my hand,” she crooned. “You’re going to marry me.” “I was thinking more in terms of murder,” Steven replied. Joellen’s cheeks reddened. “Well, you have to marry me, Steven Fairfax—you’ve compromised my good name!” “I’m going to compromise your bottom if you don’t stop talking as if I had my way with you out there. I never touched you, except to share a coat, and you know it.” “Daddy doesn’t,” Joellen said, with a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “And neither do all those cowboys, or Mr. Deva, or Sing Cho. They’re my witnesses that you’ve spoiled me for any other man.” Steven sighed and kept his silence.

for no less than thirty seconds and then immediately pour it, ice and all, into a mason jar with a salted rim, garnished with a wedge of key lime or meyer lemon or both. You can specify how hot you like it. For example, if you ask for “pleasantly spicy,” they’ll drop the pepper in a cocktail shaker, pour in the tequila, and then remove the pepper immediately. If you ask for “taste-bud abusive,” they’ll let the pepper sit with the tequila for a couple of minutes. Ask for “medical supervision advised,” and they’ll use a safely guarded reserve that’s been steeping for who knows how long. And here’s how you drink a spicy grapefruit margarita at Colonel Teddy’s Tiki Bar on Siesta Key: as slowly as possible.

Here’s how they make a spicy grapefruit margarita at Colonel Teddy’s Tiki Bar on Siesta Key: Take a fresh habañero pepper, cut it in half, and then steep it in three ounces of Pueblo Viejo tequila. Next, add an ounce of freshly squeezed lime juice, an ounce of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice, and then one ounce of simple syrup plus a couple handfuls of crushed ice. Cover and shake it