I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.

He looked haggard and careworn, like a Borgia who has suddenly remembered that he has forgotten to shove cyanide in the consommé, and the dinner-gong due any moment.

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

The spine, and I do not attempt to conceal the fact, had become soluble, in the last degree.

Woman is the unfathomable, incalculable mystery, the problem we men can never hope to solve.

To find a man's true character, play golf with him.

He was one of those earnest, persevering dancers--the kind that have taken twelve correspondence lessons.