It’s a hell for the poor, in New York. An iron, grinding city. It frightens you. It’s so big and hard and cruel. It takes the fight out of you.
She paused, and heaved a sigh that seemed to come straight up from the cami-knickers. A silence ensued.
Lady Kimbuck’s eyes gleamed. She took the package eagerly. She never lost an opportunity of reading compromising letters. She enjoyed them as literature, and there was never any knowing when they might come in useful.
Cold is the ogre that drives all beautiful things into hiding.
She ignored my observation. This generally happens with me. Show me a woman, I sometimes say, and I will show you someone who is going to ignore my observations.
He stood looking at the detective like Schopenhauer’s butcher at the selected lamb.
England is a jolly sight too small for anyone to live in with Aunt Agatha, if she’s really on the warpath.
I’m not much of a ladies’ man, but on this particular morning it seemed to me that what I really wanted was some charming girl to buzz up and ask me to save her from assassins or something.
I see no percentage in your being alive. I wish you were a corpse, preferably a mangled one. I should like to dance on your remains.
I hope that this will be a lesson to you not to go to fancy-dress balls as a lizard. If fewer people went about the place pretending to be lizards, this would be a better and sweeter world.
The sun, taken in as usual by the never-failing practical joke of the Daylight Saving Act, had only just set, and a golden afterglow lingered on the fields as the car which had met the train purred over the two miles of country road that separated the little town from the castle.
I am going to start at the bottom and work my way still further down.
It went automatically to a heavy-weight mother with beetling eyebrows who looked as if she had just come from doing a spot of knitting at the foot of the guillotine.
He coughed again, that deferential cough of his which sounds like a well-bred sheep clearing its throat on a distant mountain-top.
He returned with the tissue-restorer. I loosed it down the hatch, and after undergoing the passing discomfort, unavoidable when you drink Jeeves’s patent morning revivers, of having the top of the skull fly up to the ceiling and the eyes shoot out of their sockets and rebound from the opposite wall like racquet balls, felt better. It.
But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.” “Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.” “He’s supposed to be one of the best men in London.” “I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.
She has heard what a loony you are, and she seems to think it may be hereditary. “I hope you are not like your uncle,” she keeps saying, with a sort of brooding look in her eye.’ ‘You must have misunderstood her. “I hope you are like your uncle,” she probably said. Or “Do try, darling, to be more like your uncle.
Just as you say, sir. There is a letter on the tray, sir.” “By Jove, Jeeves, that was practically poetry. Rhymed, did you notice?
For years Belpher oysters had been the mainstay of gay supper parties at the Savoy, the Carlton and Romano’s. Dukes doted on them; chorus girls wept if they were not on the bill of fare. And then, in an evil hour, somebody discovered that what made the Belpher oyster so particularly plump and succulent was the fact that it breakfasted, launched and dined almost entirely on the local sewage. There is but a thin line ever between popular homage and execration.
How’s the weather, Jeeves?’ ‘Exceptionally clement, sir.