It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.

Dark hair fell in a sweep over his forehead. He looked like a man who would write vers libre, as indeed he did.

It was a confusion of ideas between him and one of the lions he was hunting in Kenya that had caused A. B. Spottsworth to make the obituary column. He thought the lion was dead, and the lion thought it wasn't.

She looked away. Her attitude seemed to suggest that she had finished with him, and would be obliged if somebody would come and sweep him up.

Lady Glossip: Mr. Wooster, how would you support a wife? Bertie Wooster: Well, I suppose it depends on who's wife it was, a little gentle pressure beneath the elbow while crossing a busy street usually fits the bill.

It was a nasty look. It made me feel as if I were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time.

I am not always good and noble. I am the hero of this story, but I have my off moments.