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

She gave me another of those long keen looks, and I could see that she was again asking herself if her favourite nephew wasn't steeped to the tonsils in the juice of the grape.

The stationmaster's whiskers are of a Victorian bushiness and give the impression of having been grown under glass.

If you could call the thing a horse. If it hadn't shown a flash of speed in the straight, it would have got mixed up with the next race.

Men capable of governing empires fail to control a small white ball, which presents no difficulties whetever to others with one ounce more brain than a cuckoo clock. I wish to goodness I knew the man who invented this infernal game. I'd strangle him. But I suppose he's been dead for ages. Still, I could go and jump on his grave.

A girl who bonnets a policeman with an ashcan full of bottles is obviously good wife-and-mother timber.

...with each new book of mine I have always the feeling that this time I have picked a lemon in the garden of literature.