"Hah," said Granny. "Yes. Of course. There's always got to be"—she spat the words—"a happy ending
A paw gripped her ankle.
Granny Weatherwax looked down into the wolf's face.
"Preeees," it growled. "Annn enndinggg? Noaaow?"
The woodcutter never understood why the wolf laid its head on the stump so readily.
Or why the old woman, the one in whom anger roiled like pearl barley in a bubbling stew, insisted afterward that it be buried properly instead of skinned and thrown in the bushes. She had been very insistent about that.
And that was the end of the Big Bad Wolf.