Red hair, sir, in my opinion, is dangerous.

I started violently, as if some unseen hand had goosed me.

Work, the what's-its-name of the thingummy and the thing-um-a-bob of the what d'you-call-it.

You can't be a successful Dictator and design women's underclothing.

It would take more than long-stemmed roses to change my view that you're a despicable cowardy custard and a disgrace to a proud family. Your ancestors fought in the Crusades and were often mentioned in despatches, and you cringe like a salted snail at the thought of appearing as Santa Claus before an audience of charming children who wouldn't hurt a fly. It's enough to make an aunt turn her face to the wall and give up the struggle.

Many bad golfers marry, feeling that a wife's loving solicitude may improve their game. But they are rugged, thick-skinned men, not sensitive and introspective. It is one of the chief merits of golf that non-success at the game induces a certain amount of decent humilty, which keeps a man from pluming himself too much on any petty triumphs he may achieve in other walks of life.

Gussie, a glutton for punishment, stared at himself in the mirror.