"“Mistress Weatherwax, you are a natural disputant.” “No I ain’t!” “You’d certainly enjoy yourself at the Synod, anyway. They’ve been known to argue for days about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.” He could almost feel Granny’s mind working. At last she said, “What size pin?” “I don’t know that, I’m afraid.” “Well, if it’s an ordinary household pin, then there’ll be sixteen.” “Sixteen angels?” “That’s right.” “Why?” “I don’t know. Perhaps they like dancing.” The mule picked its way down a bank. The mist was getting thicker here. “You’ve counted sixteen?” said Oats eventually. “No, but it’s as good an answer as any you’ll get.” (p. 277)"