Thomas Kinkade bloomsbury cafe

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crabwise away from the fat girl, dragging one toe in the dust. She edged around in a rough circle about fif-teen feet across, still dragging her boot, until she backed into Perdita.
“Sorry. There. Done it.”
“That’s a magic circle?”
“Right. People can come to harm else. All kinds of magic zipping around the place when witches fight.”
“But you didn’t chant or anything.”
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“No?”
“There has to be a chant, doesn’t there?”
“Dunno. Never done one.”
“Oh.”
“I could sing you a comic song if you likes,” said Nanny helpfully.
“Um, no. Um.” Perdita had never heard Nanny sing, but news gets around.
“I like your black lace hanky,” said Nanny, not a bit abashed. “Very good for not showing the bogies.”
Perdita stared at the circle as though hypnotized. “Um.
Shall we start, then?”
“Right.”
Nanny Ogg allowed to wander around in just a vest even if they were four years old. And the child had a permanently runny nose and ought to be provided with a handkerchief or, failing that, a cork.
Nanny Ogg, on the other hand, was instant putty in thescurried back to the bench and elbowed Granny in the ribs.“Wake up!”Granny opened an eye.“I weren’t asleep, I was just resting me eyes.”“All you’ve got to do is stare her down!”“At least she knows about the importance of the stare, then. Hah! Who does she think she is? I’ve been staring at people all my life!”“Yes, that’s what’s bothering me—aaahh . . . who’s Nona’s little boy, then?”The rest of the Ogg clan had arrived.Granny Weatherwax personally disliked young Pewsey. She disliked all small children, which is why she got on with them so well. In Pewsey’s case, she felt that no one should be
hands of any grandchild, even one as sticky as Pewsey