The real objection to the great majority of cats is their insufferable air of superiority.

This Vladimir Brusiloff to whom I have referred was the famous Russian novelist. . . . Vladimir specialized in gray studies of hopeless misery, where nothing happened till page three hundred and eighty, when the moujik decided to commit suicide. . . . Cuthbert was an optimist at heart, and it seemed to him that, at the rate at which the inhabitants of that interesting country were murdering one another, the supply of Russian novelists must eventually give out.

I pressed down the mental accelerator. The old lemon throbbed fiercely. I got an idea.

Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.

Birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.

Bicky rocked, like a jelly in a high wind.

I don't want to seem always to be criticizing your methods of voice production, Jeeves, I said, but I must inform you that that 'Well, sir' of yours is in many respects fully as unpleasant as your 'Indeed, sir?